


the space between (a rock and a hard place)

by xfphile



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Competent Jack Robinson, Developing Relationship, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 02, Romance, Sexual Violence, bamf jack robinson, bamf phryne fisher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfphile/pseuds/xfphile
Summary: The bond between Jack and Phryne is tested to its limits when they are forced to make a choice between the unthinkable and the unspeakable.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 55
Kudos: 83





	1. Spark

A/N 1: Welcome to my new fic! Thing the First: there are certain spoilers/details that have been provided in the notes at the end of the chapter. Read the tags and if you think you'll be triggered by something, the end notes should answer most of your questions.

Thing the Second: I do not care for Series 3 as a whole, especially given that 'Crypt of Tears' follows it. Therefore, this story takes place not long after 'Murder Under the Mistletoe' (S2E13), and Series 3 does not happen at all. I've done my best to leave all knowledge of later episodes out, but if any crept in, it's purely by accident. However, there may be minor (or major) spoilers for all episodes of series 1 & 2.

Thing the Third: as always, I love and welcome comments and concrit . . . but flames and personal attacks will not be tolerated. You don't like the direction I took for the plot? Awesome. Let me know. You hate whatever about the story? Great; let me know. You think I'm the most horrible person God ever created for writing this? Fantastic; keep it to yourself. You believe I should change my viewpoint or opinions to match yours? Fabulous. Keep it to yourself.

I understand there are sensitive issues in this fic, and am well-aware they might hit some nerves, and that's fine. But we are all adults here, and I do not think it's unreasonable to act like it.

Thing the Fourth: this story could not and would not have happened with the amazing beta services of LeChatNoir1918 and InALessLethalDress. If you haven't read their stuff, do so immediately, because it is all amazing work.

So, having said all that: I hope you enjoy the story!

**_the space between (a rock and a hard place) _ **

_“Thy will be done, my Lord. Because You know the weakness in the heart of Your children, and You assign each of them only the burden they can bear. May You understand my love — because it is the only thing I have that is really mine, the only thing that I will be able to take with me into the next life. Please allow it to be courageous and pure; please make it capable of surviving the snares of the world.”_ ― Paulo Coelho, [_By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept_](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3249453)

~~~

_ Spark _

It’s a complex emotion, being in love. For some, it comes as easily and naturally as breathing. For others, it is the Eighth (or whatever number they were up to) Deadly Sin.

And for a select few, being in love is something that they must be dragged into kicking and screaming — usually accompanied by denial, deadly force, and the occasional innocent bystander. And then, once ‘in love’ has been reached, the eternal holding pattern emerges. Wanting, _needing_ , the other, but not willing (or able) to take that next step, not even to meet halfway, and equally unable to step back, to walk away.

Meet Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher.

~~~

There are those who say that there are no coincidences, that everything in life is part of a divine plan, or things are fated to be. There are others who say that there are no coincidences, particularly in crime, because it simply never is. And then there are those who don’t think about it one way or the other, until the world comes crashing down — at which point they curse God, fate, the universe, and everything in it with a creativity that has inspired many a practitioner of Voodoo.

Meet Howard ‘The Hammer’ Briggs.

~~~

Howard Briggs was not a unique individual: born and raised in poverty, illiterate, but also highly intelligent, exceptionally cunning, and extremely ambitious. Like a great number of people in those circumstances, he resented those who had the money and influence he craved, but had no desire to obtain it for himself by means of honest work. Rather, he determined that because they had so much, a little going missing wouldn’t hurt them and if it did, well, it was their fault for having it in the first place.

This disdain for anyone he considered ‘higher up’ was coupled with a gleeful sadism that manifested itself in the torture of small animals and children, urges that grew as he did. However, unlike the majority of such personalities, Howard Briggs possessed an innate subtlety and so those he hurt were never able to prove it; he himself was never marked and he always had a witness ready to swear he’d been with them at the time. This gave him a taste of power that rapidly spiraled into addiction, and so, he carefully found and cultivated like-minded people who could also be led. By the age of 22, his gang — Hammer and Tongs — had perfected the arts of thievery, petty burglary, and well-planned break-and-enters. They had learned to be subtle and avoid people if possible, but they also had no issues with committing violence if they deemed it necessary (it always was and ‘The Hammer’ always inflicted the first — and worst — of the injuries).

Ned Kelly was Briggs’ hero and at the age of 24, he finally achieved his greatest dream: successfully robbing his first bank. His innate intelligence and cunning, combined with the cohesiveness of the gang he had built, allowed him to continue exclusively with robbing banks, but after nearly being caught on their third heist, his natural sadistic streak was unleashed in a truly diabolical manner: at each robbery, he would select a woman and give her a choice: let him violate her right there, in full view of everyone in the bank . . . or he would kill one of the others and rape her anyway. And her first reaction was all she got.

Not one woman said ‘yes.’

By their seventh robbery, the pattern was established: the robbers would be in and out of the bank in less than 15 minutes with money and valuables in hand, and leaving trauma and desolation in their wake. They were never caught after the act because they all donned regular clothing and never wore a mask or gloves. Also, as none of them had any particularly memorable facial features (broken noses weren’t all that uncommon, after all), it was difficult for witnesses to describe them. Even more frustrating for the police, none of the robbers used their ill-gotten gains at all, it seemed: no new clothes, no extravagant purchases, no high-end hotel stays . . . it was like the money and valuables they stole simply vanished off the face of the earth (which led to several increasingly disgruntled discussions among the police fraternity about _why_ these men were robbing banks if they weren’t going to use the damn money). To make matters worse, they couldn’t be anticipated for the simple reason that each robbery’s location and date were determined solely by the roll of a dice, and they never hit the same branch twice. Also, with experience came knowledge, and it didn’t take long for them to learn which states had good coppers and which ones didn’t.

For this very reason, Howard Briggs had determined to stay well-away from City South’s district in particular. He had heard too much about Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson’s skills, arrest record, and conviction rate to risk it. Yet. Even for an illiterate bank robber, Robinson was too dangerous to trifle with (he had heard this opinion from a startling number of people, including rival gang members who wouldn’t agree with the other that water was wet), and so he would skirt the edges of that territory but refused to enter it until he had more information and a foolproof plan. There were two slight (well, major, as it happened) flaws in that, however, as they simply never occurred to Briggs: he had no idea what his adversary looked like, as he had very definite plans to avoid him (and, since he couldn’t read, he never bothered with a newspaper), and he had also dismissed the rumors and comments he’d heard about Robinson working with a woman who appeared to be his equal. Howard Briggs held women as good for one thing, and then only if you paid for it.

Then one day, the roll of the dice landed on a bank seven miles outside of City South’s official jurisdiction.

Meet coincidence.

~~~

Providing definitive proof of either divine providence or simple coincidence, Phryne Fisher happened to be at the Legacy & Trust Bank that day. She had been hired to look into a potential case of fraud regarding a certain high-society woman’s safety deposit box and her husband’s suspected mistress. As always, her companion Dot Williams was with her.

Jack Robinson was also at that bank, accompanying City East’s head DI Malcom Gibson (in whose district this bank was located) and the recently-appointed Commissioner of Police, Sebastian Barnes. They were there to speak to the bank manager about the string of robberies being perpetuated by the Hammer and Tongs gang, with an eye to establishing a rotating police presence in hopes of finally catching the bastards.

Meet divine providence.

~~~

Phryne was nearly out of her mind with boredom; this case, which had showed promise as an interesting diversion, had instead turned into the drudgery of your run-of-the-mill husband and his younger and prettier (though similar in looks to the wife) mistress stealing from the aforementioned wife. She missed Jack fiercely, the criminals of Melbourne having taken an extended break from murdering each other for over a week now. As if that weren’t enough, the recent . . . revelations . . . from the fallout of George Sanderson’s corruption and Sidney Fletcher’s thrice-damned child slave ring, never mind that horrific Christmas weekend, had left her . . . unsettled (and so angry with Prudence Stanley that she had actually _written down_ a detailed plan for her murder; stopping Jack from kissing her after they had rescued those girls had been frustrating; stopping him from doing so under Jane’s mistletoe had been irritating; stopping her from taking him to her bedroom after the party ended by ambushing them at the stairs had been _just too much_.) Jack, after giving her a look so full of scorching regret her hair nearly caught fire before flinging her aunt his own fulminating glare (thankfully, she hadn’t seen it as she’d been giving Phryne a similar look) had actually gone straight to the station (possibly breaking a record for time in transit), called her, and kept her on the phone for over an hour, calming her down by giving her cold cases to puzzle over.

And that had been the moment she finally understood that she had tumbled straight over the cliff into love. She’d respected him from the beginning, wanted him for — well, also from the beginning, and craved his company for months. But she hadn’t truly understood what that shifting array of emotions meant until Jack had sacrificed his hard-earned peace for hers, because . . . because he . . .

But he hadn’t made another attempt and she was at an utter loss herself, and so here she was, too many days later, so frustrated that she actually felt like screaming. She was so unsettled, in fact, that she was now wary of visiting Jack without just cause (the lack of his presence at her home after his shifts told her he felt the same, and she couldn’t quite decide if she was relieved or aggravated by this). She wanted Jack, desperately. She loved him even more so. But she didn’t know how to _be_ with him, especially without harming their friendship (a prospect that actually frightened her, which in turn annoyed her, and the cycle just fed on itself), and she was fairly certain that he would actually explode before he gave her an honest answer to a serious question about _them._ And so she stayed away, because she honestly didn’t know what else to do.

So. She was now being deprived of both the mental stimulation that she only got from a good murder case _and_ the mental (and physical and emotional, she was forced to admit) stimulation she only got from Jack. Combine the two and, well . . .

She was so irked by the situation (and by ‘situation,’ she meant ‘where she and Jack stood with each other,’ though she would give up alcohol for the rest of her natural life before admitting this), in fact, that the prior morning had her demanding rather crossly to the universe if there was a convention for criminals happening and they’d forgotten to share this small fact with the hardworking people who chased after and caught them.

(she missed Mr Butler quietly observing to Cec that it was far more likely the criminals of Melbourne had figured out that working in Miss Fisher and the Inspector’s vicinity was bad for business, and word had spread)

She was thinking so intently about Jack and what do to— ** _about!_** _—_ about him that when she saw him stroll through the bank doors, accompanied by a fellow cop, though not one she knew, and a man she placed after a moment as the new Chief Commissioner, she actually did a double-take.

~~~

For his part, Jack was just as stunned. He’d been having near-identical thoughts, though he was a little more grateful for the dearth of murders and overall violent crime, as it had allowed him to _finally_ catch up on the backlog of paperwork that invariably accumulated after two days on a murder case. He had, however, been missing her so much it ached, and had been sleeping badly as a result. It seemed that his body had gotten so used to her whisky, her presence, and her driving him to distraction before he finally had to either tear himself out through the door or succumb (in his fondest dreams) to the passion that had literally taken on a life of its own (he had actually gone so far as to secretly name it, but he would die from a thousand papercuts before admitting that), that it didn’t know what do without them. He had even given up drinking whisky at home, because it wasn’t with _her_.

As a result, he increasingly wondered about his sanity. Here he was: a grown man, a war veteran, and a very good policeman, and yet unable to function properly because of an undefined relationship with a woman who didn’t do them. A woman he craved so badly, in every possible way, that sometimes he couldn’t breathe for the want.

And the most infuriating thing about it? This only happened to him with regards to Phryne Fisher. He was an excellent cop, he’d been a good soldier (horrific though it had been, and those scars would never fully heal (yet another thing he and Phryne Fisher had in common, damn her)), and he had no deep-seeded doubts about his own self-worth. Had he truly been interested in a woman for something serious, he would have had no trouble asking her to step out with him, and Lord knew there had been opportunities. But he . . . just . . . hadn’t . . . been interested.

Yes, the disintegration of his marriage had been . . . demoralizing. But he had, with time and perspective, come to accept that while he carried no small amount of the responsibility for the crumbling connection between himself and Rosie, so too did she. He had also come to understand (from the endless days of piecing together miniscule scraps of information into a cohesive whole, a curse from Army Intelligence; from the widows of those friends who didn’t come home . . . and even moreso from the friends who did; and in no small part from Phryne Fisher, because God only knew her day wasn’t complete unless she gave him grief and succor, often at the same time) that their marriage wouldn’t have lasted even without the war. From the beginning, they had courted with the intention of romance and marriage, and in their youthful naïveté, they had thought that loving and wanting each other was all they would need. There had been no friendship built, no true underlying stability, and so there had been no foundation to draw on when hardship had struck. They had never forged genuine trust or solidity.

Rosie didn’t know him well enough to understand why he recoiled from unexpected touches, especially those he didn’t see coming, nor could she grasp any of the reasons _why_ he had sunk into total silence when things (whether real or a too-vivid memory) flung up a harsh reminder. That silence had replaced the quiet ‘not yet’ he used to offer before the war, when he simply needed time to process before talking to her. But the real problem had been that she was utterly unable to adapt to it, and work with him as a team to decipher that suffocating muteness and strip it of its influence; silence speaks volumes, but only if one is willing to listen, and she didn’t know or trust him enough to try. For his part, he simply could not understand her constant need to _talk,_ but never about the actual subject; she always weaved and jabbed like a boxer seeking a weak spot, and like any experienced fighter, he withdrew and curled up to protect himself, rather than engage, because he didn’t know if she was strong enough to support him while he tried to claw his way back to his feet.

So by the time she had given up and moved out, Jack was — well, he’d never really been ‘heartbroken,’ because he’d been forced to realize that he’d never felt that strongly about her (nor had she about him, he suspected) — he was regretful. He didn’t miss her, particularly, not as his wife or even as _Rosie_ , and that was an insight about himself he did not like, though he was honest enough to admit it (albeit only to himself; he wasn’t a saint). But he had accepted the fact that his heart was free, in spirit if not legally, though the actual divorce itself had been brutal in ways he hadn’t expected. He’d been forced to play the villain in court, though he’d refused to admit to infidelity, and had found himself strongly resenting the fact that obtaining a divorce had required an either/or option. His innate honor — and, truthfully, his desire to be free — being what it was had compelled him to admit to abandonment. In his mind, he and Rosie shared equal fault for that, but there wasn’t room for that perspective in the courtroom, and George could (and would) make his life difficult. So he claimed full responsibility in exchange for his freedom and hated the world at large for several hours while he mourned the death of his last youthful ideal even as he tried to feel guilty for the sheer, overwhelming relief . . . as perilous as that relief was.

Because now, the only thing standing in the way of moving forward with Phryne Fisher was his willpower.

He’d known he was in danger the minute he had kicked open that hotel door to reveal a brutalized Veronique Sarcelle. The sudden rage and equally strong surge of protectiveness had swamped him in a heartbeat as his cop’s instincts had given him the horrified realization that Miss Fisher — that _Phryne_ — had suffered much the same at the hands of René DuBois, and he had been so overwhelmed by those emotions that he actually had to stop at the door and just breathe. It had been so powerful, in fact, that he’d been forced to let Hugh help the women and start working the scene while he fought a minor war with his sanity and won. It was a near thing, though; had DuBois been there, Jack would have ripped out his throat and laughed while he died. He had felt out of control — and Jack Robinson did not _lose_ control. It was an established law of physics.

It was also why he’d kissed her at the restaurant; he’d still been shaken up and _seeing_ the evidence of her fear (her _terror_ ) had him so on edge that . . . well . . . kissing Phryne had been the only thing that kept him from shooting DuBois the minute he cleared the door. Nonetheless, it had been a foolish thing to do and they all knew it. However, it had also shown him just how much trouble he was in, and that he needed to pull back _now._ That thrice-damned painting somehow managed to make it easier and harder, and he fled her house determined to stay away and stop letting her in personally.

 _That_ resolution had lasted a whole four days, and then one of Miss Fisher’s old teachers was murdered and he knew that was it. As he was waiting for her to invade his crime scene (subconsciously, of course; he’d gone to great lengths to keep the murder out of the public eye. The fact that this was simply a test of how long it would take her to arrive was mere happenstance.), he was abruptly struck with the knowledge that he was going to fall in love with her. And he was so very afraid it was going to hurt. But, being the intelligent man that he was, Jack reviewed the evidence and decided to stop fighting it as such, choosing instead to simply observe and possibly start engaging in minimal interactions; he would return her serves with an equal volley of his own, so to speak, and see what happened. A relationship took two people, after all, and it _was_ Phryne Fisher, so . . . maybe it wouldn’t self-destruct. Maybe they could come together as equals here the way they had everywhere else. She was a highly intelligent woman, after all, and they had already found themselves well-matched in so many other ways. So they grew closer, emotionally as well as physically, until he was given the unexpected honor of seeing just how deep her trust in _him_ ran when she opened up to him about Janey and Murdoch Foyle.

The only thing that kept him from succumbing was his pending divorce proceedings. He’d been pathetically grateful for that because it was the one thing that allowed him to pull back a little and maintain their equilibrium, so they could find Marigold Brown’s killer and Phryne could finally accept that Foyle wasn’t the bogeyman he wanted to be. And it had _worked_.

Until Cleopatra sauntered up to him and stirred up things that had been simmering on a low heat for nearly a year, the inevitable outcome of two people who hold an intellectual attraction that equaled (or exceeded) the physical, even when neither intended, or even truly wanted, anything to come of it. This resulted in a realization that slammed into him like a fist to the throat: he had already fallen in love with Phryne Fisher. If she hadn’t had the strength to turn away, their passion would have burned the house to ashes — and them with it.

After that, and the nightmare that was Murdoch Foyle, things between them changed again. He found that he had become more open and lighter of spirit, and wondered about it for a ridiculous amount of time. When he finally understood, he actually beat his head against the desk in his study several times for his willful ignorance. Of _course_ it was Miss Fisher who had played such a large part of his change in perspective, unwitting though it was; her ability to accept life as it came without getting bogged down by the bad had been eye-opening and, even though he was a considerably more cautious person than she, he wasn’t so arrogant as to assume his way was the only option, nor was he so foolish as to ignore sound evidence. Particularly when it was repeatedly presented to him with positive results.

The direct effect of these new understandings was aggravation, both with himself and with her, about the nebulous state of their — well, whatever the hell it was. After all, he had shown her his explicit interest thr — no, four times now (if driving up an icy deathtrap of a mountain to help her (and protect her) simply because she _thought_ there was a suspicious death wasn’t a declaration, he was at an utter loss as to what _was._ ). He had thought she understood by now what he wanted, and he was reasonably sure she felt the same _(finally_ ). And yet, she had said and done nothing (he didn’t count the fully plotted out demise of Prudence Stanley, as he would have buried the body himself. Leaving her that night had nearly killed him, but soothing her with his cold cases (and damned if she hadn’t solved one of them) had been so satisfyingly intimate that he’d actually needed to take a few minutes to compose himself after he felt it was safe to let her off the phone.). The exasperating woman hadn’t even seen fit to harass him on a crime scene (or his office, though that was probably a good thing, if he were honest), much less attempt to ply him with food, alcohol, whatever board game they could feign interest in, and her intoxicating presence.

And he, of course, hadn’t asked, because what could he say? ‘Well, Miss Fisher, I’ve tried to seduce you three times now, and been scuppered each time; might you be persuaded for a fourth attempt?’

Which . . . would probably work.

Except that they really needed to talk, first, and therein lay the problem. Jack had no problem at all telling her he was in love with her (not now, at any rate; he’d grown up quite a bit since that damned motorcar wreck and was man enough to admit he’d behaved abominably). The issue, he had discovered, was two-fold. Primarily, at least for him, was that they were friends — good friends, maybe even best friends — in addition to being professional partners. This had tangled their lives so tightly, and in a myriad of ways so subtly and thoroughly entwined, that his severing of those relationships had damn-near destroyed them both. The underlying bedrock of their relationship was that strong. That realization had scared him a hell of a lot more than being a one-night fling to her, because if things went bad between them, romance-wise, they were unlikely to be able to remain friends, or even work partners. Their lives had become so tightly twined together that there was no room for middle ground . . . but only if they chose to bridge that final gap. And Jack Robinson wasn’t a coward, but neither was he the hero who charged blindly over a hill, enemy fire be damned, just to see what happened.

Which led to the second issue: it was highly likely that Phryne returned his feelings, but it was equally likely she didn’t realize this, and that lack of understanding, coupled with his knowledge of her last truly serious romantic relationship, was a combination that would likely prove to be deadly. He didn’t know all of her past, but her complete inability to withstand even a single silk thread wrapped around her finger told him plenty (it also made him feel more than slightly homicidal about the things he _did_ know; it truly was a good thing, for both men, that DuBois was dead). And while he did understand her reticence, he wasn’t so masochistic as to offer himself on a silver platter to someone who simply didn’t know how (or that she even _wanted_ ) to reciprocate.

And that went both ways. Long before he’d fallen in love with her, he’d loved her, and had an enormous amount of esteem for her. By then, their friendship was just as well-established as their professional partnership, and her flirtations had long since cooled to what could be termed ‘habitual.’ She hadn’t yet wanted _him,_ other than mildly carnally (having him would be nice, but not having him would make no difference) _,_ and he simply had too much respect for her to use her body like that just to scratch an itch.

So here he was: a grown man, excellent cop, and experienced war veteran, fantasizing about ever-more improbable seduction scenarios with the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, when he strode into a bank with a fellow inspector and their new boss at his side while fervently wishing that she was with him instead of his current companions and wondering if (hoping that) getting this operation in place would suffice as a ‘post-case nightcap’ worthy occasion . . . only to run face-first into her startled expression (and glorious double-take; what he wouldn’t have given for a camera).

~~~

Meet fate.


	2. Blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going out of town this weekend and was going to make you guys wait until Monday, but then I mentioned this plan to ALessLethalDress and got such devastating puppy-dog eyes that people in Siberia melted.
> 
> And remember: if you have any questions about the warnings for this chapter, they're in the notes at the bottom of chapter 1. 
> 
> ::holds breath::

_ Blaze _

~~~

_Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. — John 15:13_

~~~

Phryne was aware of the Hammer and Tongs bank robberies; she was a well-read woman, after all, and they were most definitely newspaper worthy. However, she had put no effort into researching them, despite her speechless outrage over the leader’s choice of control tactics. As badly as she wanted to castrate the bastard, even Phryne admitted that she by herself was no match for a gang that big and skilled. And, unless and until it became one of Jack’s cases, she couldn’t — and wouldn’t — touch it with a 10-foot pole. She had earned a fair amount of respect from City South as an entity, but only grudging respect from other stations in Melbourne; every single other station she had assisted (some at their request, others at hers) had used her skills and abilities, only to shut her out when the case was solved, whether or not they’d officially made an arrest, and as a result, she wasn’t nearly so magnanimous (or foolish) as to offer her assistance to them on a case as serious and career-boosting as this one had turned into. No. Only for Jack would she make that offer (alright, barge in the middle of), because she trusted him completely and the feeling was mutual.

Case in point: she and Jack were staring at each other like Romeo and Juliet parting at the balcony, and the air was so thick with longing that the people around them could literally taste it (in actual fact, the adults were aroused and/or embarrassed, the adolescents were suddenly giddy, and the Chief Commissioner felt a migraine coming on). Truthfully, they were so hungry for a sight of the other that they were genuinely rendered speechless, so the slightly _off_ entrance of a man into the lobby caught her attention (and Jack’s) in a way that it wouldn’t have at any other time. But it gave them the excuse they desperately needed to regain their composures and sternly remind themselves that they were, in fact, grown adults and they were _going_ to act like it.

As such, they were both extremely on edge and so noticed the bulge of the gun tucked into his waistband, as well as the suspiciously-casual sweep he did of the lobby. Phryne recognized that look all too well, as it was one she had given more times than she could count in preparation for a break-and-enter. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, only to go wide when a second man entered, also armed, and gave the room a similar once-over before moving smoothly further in to integrate with the group of customers. When the third man followed the same pattern, she suddenly understood and took the time for one silent, vicious curse before turning to Jack with well-concealed excitement (and, it must be said, even better concealed concern).

Even if they never reached that final summit, they would always have this.

~~~

Jack had also twigged to what was happening at the arrival of the third man and had immediately let Gibson in on the situation, but it wasn’t until he met Phryne’s eyes again that he settled. He was concerned, yes, but also excited. This was where they thrived, and by God, he _missed_ it.

Her expression held the same emotions and time stopped for a moment in their shared solidarity before she stepped forward and removed her gun from her clutch while deliberately placing one elegant Mary Jane on his right shoelace; he immediately took a step back to untie it, and then a second step for distance.

At his fourth step, she softly called, “Sir? Your shoe’s come untied,” and — God help him — his knees nearly buckled at the sound of her voice. Well, that settled it: when this was done, so was his — and her — fear-driven restraint. Being apart had just ceased to be an option.

But they had a job to do, so Jack paused and looked down at his shoe while she stepped against him and pressed her revolver into his hands, whispering ‘five’ as she did. He gave a single curt nod of acknowledgement but didn’t — couldn’t — look up as he dropped to a knee to tie the lace, taking several seconds to drag his sock free of the garter and tug it down enough to safely tuck the gun in at his ankle. As he stood, he brushed his hand against hers in silent thanks before stepping back again. But as he started to turn to go to Gibson’s side, he found his eyes inexorably pulled back to her because she was his compass point, his Northern Star, and his entire being had attuned itself to hers.

Their eyes met and in those few seconds they were able to give each other, they finally had a moment of complete and total honesty.

 _Don’t do anything rash. Well,_ too _rash._

_— No promises, Jack_

_I trust you._

_— I know. And thank you._

_Come back safely to me._

_— Don’t I always?_

And then he turned away from her to head back to his companions, loathing the fact that their presence was keeping him from her side, only to pause mid-step when he saw their faces: Gibson was watching them with raised eyebrows and an expectant look that also conveyed respect and more amusement than Jack thought was warranted, while Barnes wore an expression that he could only describe as ‘mystified awe’, paired with no small amount of concern.

(not for the first time, he wondered what, exactly, Stuart Hall and George Sanderson had said about Phryne Fisher)

He had literally just enough time to verify the arrival of five robbers and give his fellow DI his personal gun (because he was damned if anyone touched her beloved weapon but him), which was strapped to his right thigh — earning himself a matching pair of shocked looks — when the first man pulled out his own weapon and, in a ringing voice more suited to a circus, announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery!”

(Jack had, after the debacle that was the DuBois sting, been extremely unhappy with himself and his overall actions, so he had contacted an old army mate and engaged the man to tutor him (or find an instructor) in hand-to-hand combat, gun-handling, and shooting accuracy. He’d always been a fair shot and a decent fighter, but if Phryne hadn’t been able to rescue herself, that entire operation would have ended in a bloodbath — this was _after_ the extremely poor showing he’d made when the Frenchman was trying to murder Burt on the street, and Jack had missed every single shot he’d taken — and he was coldly resolved that it would never happen again. Not to him. So he trained, and practiced, and honed those skills with the single-minded determination he was (in)famous for, for four months, working directly with one of the best security men and bodyguards on the continent (the Camorra had killed to get him and some of his associates on their payroll. That had been a spectacularly bad idea; every verifiable rumor confirmed it had taken more than a year for them to recover.). Among the skills in question, carrying his gun on his thigh (once the concept of ‘gun holster’ had finished boggling his mind) had done wonders to improve both his aim and his reaction time, and it also had the advantage of being hidden by his trench coat, so if firing his weapon was required, he maintained the element of surprise. He had yet to be tested in real life, as it were (he’d been unable to utilize the ability at Maiden Creek due to a complete lack of opportunity), so he had no idea that he had gone from ‘dangerous’ to ‘lethal’, but he would always wear a gun at his thigh.)

So here they were: two experienced and armed Senior Detective Inspectors, the brand-new Chief Commissioner of Police (unarmed), and a Lady Detective who was _probably_ armed and most definitely dangerous.

And a bank lobby containing five likely bank robbers — all armed — and eight civilians. Despite the twelve bullets (and one likely dagger) in their possession, this was bad.

“Well, you know the drill,” the man continued, sounding so cheerful that Jack felt ill. “All money and valuables in the sack, no sudden moves, no heroics . . . and . . . you, I think, for my afternoon delight,” he crooned, pointing straight at —

Jack’s heart stopped and he was suddenly afraid that he was going to throw up, because he had forgotten the unspeakable component of these robberies.

Briggs was pointing directly at Dot.

~~~

Phryne’s heart stopped at that gleeful declaration, her entire being seizing with horror as she realized what was about to happen.

Her turbulent emotions threatened to overwhelm her for a moment, but Phryne had a streak of ruthless pragmatism that had been born during her childhood and honed to an exquisitely sharp edge by her parents, Janey, the War, René . . . this was another reason she and Jack were so well-matched: he had the same streak, and the same ability to engage it. It was a quality they deeply appreciated in the other, albeit one that was never spoken of. It was what allowed to her consider, discard, and select a plan in a bare handful of seconds, and not second-guess herself. But even more, it was what allowed her to face the worst kind of person — in any arena — without flinching.

And so, Phryne recovered her poise and charm immediately and shifted, letting her coat fall half-off her shoulders as she deliberately placed herself in front of her companion and friend, who had frozen in terror. It was clear to her experienced, Collingwood-raised eye that this boorish, uncouth bank robber was highly unlikely to have had any success with women (or the desire to try, actually; she knew his ilk of old, and they tended to view women as well below dogs on any measuring scale, and only slightly more useful than a stepping stool), so him selecting Dot instead of the striking adolescent daughter of Maribelle Hinton (slim, blond, graceful, innocent as freshly-fallen snow) or even Phryne herself wasn’t all that surprising. Under normal circumstances, she doubted he’d be able to even get completely hard, much less perform, with an attractive, elegant, even exotic, female. No, his choice of Dot’s fresh, wholesome prettiness was only too logical.

But she was the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and she had never once failed to seduce a man when she’d actively set out to do so. She would become a nun before she failed today.

“Oh, come now,” Phryne said to him, her voice a carefully calculated mix of ‘chiding’ and ‘seductive’; she had to engage him without overwhelming him, and naturally, his kind also took offence at the drop of a feather. She was walking a tightrope and couldn’t afford to miss a single step. “Surely you’d prefer someone a little more . . . adventurous . . . ” she coaxed, allowing her coat to slip to her elbows, which showcased her breasts rather nicely, while she pushed her right leg forward enough to draw her knee-length skirt tightly over her thighs. As she expected, he looked, and clearly liked what he saw. She took a deep breath, further pushing her chest out, and his gaze slimed up her body to meet hers.

She actually felt the ooze.

Unfortunately, Briggs wasn’t stupid, and he was naturally suspicious of any woman who would offer to let a bank robber fuck her. Especially in public. During said bank robbery.

“I’m always up for adventure,” he drawled, stepping close enough to run a single finger from her chin down to the waistband of her skirt (he had no idea how close he came to losing both his lunch and his ability to sire children by way of the pointed toes of a Mary Jane shoe making forceful contact with his groin; his gang members unwittingly saved his life at that moment). “But I don’t know why _you_ are. Unless you’re a prossie, and if so, I’ll ‘ave enough money for ya in about ten minutes,” he added with a leer.

She managed not to roll her eyes, relieved that he was a typical male, at least in this, and let her coat and purse fall to the floor before taking a careful step forward. She was now standing so close to him that she could smell his rancid breath and unwashed body, and it took a moment for her to force down the revulsion. She had to succeed, or Dot would be . . . devastated. Destroyed.

And Phryne Fisher was _damned_ if she let that happen. She’d burn Australia first.

And it was just sex. It wasn’t going to be an enjoyable experience for anyone, but he wouldn’t hurt her, and it wasn’t going to be rape, because she was freely making the choice. She was likely the only woman on the continent who could genuinely mean that, but she would willingly give her body to spare Dot. And because she would be the one in control by offering herself, he didn’t get make her a victim. Jack would disagree, b—

Oh, God. Jack!

It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep from turning to him. She had no choice, and they both knew it, but . . .

She could only pray that he would eventually forgive her, even though she knew that making him watch was the worst hurt she could give him.

God help them both.

“A prossie?” she riposted, curling her hand around his wrist and somehow managing to look flattered. She hoped. “Really?” Her exclamation startled everyone, but she kept her eyes on Briggs’. This wasn’t a sure thing yet, and she dared show no weakness and no hesitation, though his wide eyes and arched eyebrows were almost comical. “No, I’m just a woman who enjoys doing new things.” She leaned in just a smidge, close enough that her breath disturbed the collar of his shirt, and added, “I’ve never done . . . anything . . . exotic . . . with a man in public, and I’ll confess it’s something I’ve always wanted to try. Especially with a man as . . . audacious . . . as you.” She caressed his wrist as she simpered and managed to ignore her skin crawling.

The silence in the room was deafening.

And then a low, hoarse cackle shattered it.

“All right, doll, you’ve convinced me,” he said with a leer, grabbing her wrist and yanking her forward. She took one deep breath before putting herself in the same mental space she’d found after she’d escaped from René, and again when she’d first dealt with Murdoch Foyle: her emotions were accessible, but much more distant (mild anger in the place of rage; scared rather than terrified. Apathy instead of hatred.). She couldn’t disassociate entirely, but she could reduce the impact.

He shoved her firmly to the wall next to the front counter and followed immediately, forcefully turning her to face the room and setting his gun on the counter (out of her reach, damn him) before plastering himself to her back and thus rendering her dagger useless as well. She closed her eyes as he breathed heavily in her ear but made no move to touch her, and in spite of her best efforts and considerable life experiences in conquering fear, Phryne found herself abruptly drowning in it as the moment stretched out. She truthfully didn’t have the slightest idea what he was going to do, and she was suddenly overcome with the opposing, overwhelming emotions of sheer terror at the thought of being raped — and of Jack being forced to stand there and let it happen — and raw fury that this bastard’s diabolical cunning was making _her_ feel fear. Her strength and iron will had ensured that she hadn’t given in to fear since the day she’d left René. But this? Now? Suddenly, it was on the verge of being too much.

Her emotions fluctuated wildly between extremes: terror or fury? Strength or capitulation?

It was a struggle that stretched her to the breaking point, and not even she could say which one would triumph.

And in that moment of choice, where she found herself teetering on the brink, her soul suddenly hummed as it locked on to her lodestone and guiding star.

Jack.

Their eyes met. And in him she found pride, support, strength, and more love than any one person should ever be able to give.

And he gave it to her. He gave her everything he had, whatever she needed, and when she needed more, he found it for her.

And Phryne . . . she gave him her trust — in him, and in his belief in her; she shared her hope for their future, for _them_ , her faith that they would survive this intact; and she finally let him hold her overwhelming love, entrusted to him alone, because only he would cherish it so she would thrive. She assured him that she was with him, that he wasn’t losing her, and that she would come back safely to him, always, because if he wasn’t by her side, she knew he would be waiting for her to return to his . . . and if she couldn’t, he would come to her.

She gave Jack all the things she had sworn she would never again give to a man, everything she had swallowed down after she realized that Jack was worthy of those things — worthy of _her_ — because words have power and she would not allow herself to be subservient and powerless ever again. She gave Jack everything she couldn’t say because she knew he would understand.

As Briggs put his filthy hands all over her body, intending to ruin her physically and emotionally, both for herself and for everyone else, she finally allowed herself to close that last infinite distance between them and rested her heart — her entire being — on the support of Jack’s faith and love, trusting — _knowing_ — that he would never let her fall.

But for the second time, she also saw the man who knew _exactly_ why he’d cultivated the iron-clad control he wore as a second skin. She saw the rage, the hatred, and the black desire to _hurt_ the man who was putting his hands on her with the malicious intent to harm her. And Phryne knew, with a sudden, shocking clarity, that all she had to do was nod, and Jack would tear Howard Briggs apart with his bare hands . . . and for an unthinkable moment, she nearly let him. But then she saw again the love and trust and that unshakeable faith that he’d had in her, even from the beginning, and slowly, reluctantly, she stepped back from the brink. After all, she had the same impulses and if killing the man was what she truly needed, Jack would hold her hat and tell the world they’d been eating ice cream to protect her. And he showed no surprise, no _fear_ , at her own dark imaginings. For herself, for him, for Dot, for all the people he had so gleefully hurt and destroyed just because he _could_ . . . Phryne would joyfully make sure that Howard Briggs lived a very short time in the agony of regret — and Jack wouldn’t give him even that.

But she refused to let him take that from them.

They had too much to look forward to, she and Jack, and she was _not_ going to allow this sadistic schoolyard bully to ruin that. So she accepted his darkness as easily as she welcomed his love, and gave him a tender smile when she saw him realize that she wasn’t afraid of him, that he didn’t have to hide himself away from her. That she loved him, _all_ of him, and that they were going to be amazing.

His eyes softened as he nodded back to her.

And they worked through it the way they did best. The only way they ever truly could.

Together.

~~~

Jack was still processing Briggs’ words, only vaguely aware of Gibson urging him down to his knees along with everyone else and fishing his wallet out of his coat pocket so they wouldn’t find his warrant card, when Phryne — as usual — upended everything.

And Jack — also per usual — was left simultaneously cursing her audacity and thanking God for it. The second he heard those first seductive words, he’d known what she was thinking and allowed himself the luxury of one mental cry of pure anguish before Detective Inspector Jack Robinson rose up to take full command while he forced Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher’s heart, into a locked steel box — and it took every ounce of will he possessed to make that happen. The whole of Jack Robinson was a protector and a guardian; it was more a part of him than his own name, and allowing harm to come to someone under his protection . . . no. He poured his blood, sweat, and tears into keeping his people safe. So if — when — he was unable to do so, it was a direct result of uncontrollable, outside circumstances that he could not stop. And it rarely ended well for those responsible.

So even as the man who loved Phryne Fisher screamed himself raw with tortured denial, the protector and guardian of the law and its denizens was forced to accept the brutal truth of reality.

Because Miss Fisher was right: her plan was the best way to not only stop these bastards, but their greatest chance to do so without undue risk of harm to the innocent bystanders caught in the middle. He had every confidence that she could take the ringleader down safely, whether by his gun or her dagger, and that left Jack and Gibson to handle the remaining four — but they had to wait, because these men were good at what they did. Too good. They had learned to integrate themselves among the innocent, which provided them with several additional layers of protection, and they had shown no qualms whatsoever about taking lives. Thus, moving against them now would accomplish nothing but getting people hurt. So as much as Jack despised the universe for putting them in this unrelenting nightmare, the cold truth was that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the (only) one.

And that ‘one’ would be the first person to agree with him. She had beaten him to it, actually.

Therefore, he would go along with her plan, because that was their saving grace: the gang had no idea that an armed and skilled police presence was there. So as long as everyone was paying attention, they had an excellent chance of ending this little reign of horror today and the detective inspector was grimly determined that it would _not_ end well for them. When this was over, every single one of these sorry, worthless crims was going to spend the rest of his miserable life shaking at the mere memory of his crimes.

With a deep breath, he let his hand fall to the leg of his trousers, right over the gun she had entrusted him with to keep her — to keep all of them — safe.

And it was because of the foundation of trust he and Phryne had built together that Jack could watch, unblinking, as the woman he loved showed him exactly why God had created him to stand at her side. He couldn’t stop what was about to happen. He couldn’t rail against it. He couldn’t even kill the bastard because they had to wait until the gang was ready to leave, the risk for harm simply being too high otherwise.

But by God, he _would_ be there for her.

And when she reached for him, her eyes locking onto his like they were the only people in existence, he held her gaze like it was the sole thing keeping them on the planet. When Briggs grabbed a breast with one grubby hand, squeezing brutally hard while his other hand caught a fistful of hair and roughly yanked her head back, he refused to let her eyes leave his while he told her that she was right, this was the only way, that he understood and fully supported her, and would be there for her always, however she needed him.

When he groped her beautiful buttocks before grinding himself against her, Jack kept his eyes on hers and let her see that he was so incredibly proud of her and that he knew she would come back to him, because she’d promised and Phryne Fisher did not break her promises. He swore that he would be waiting patiently for her to arrive, whisky in hand while he held down her mantelpiece, lest it leave orbit. He showed her that he wanted her, needed her, _belonged_ with her, had been fashioned to stand with her always. He told that he loved her and there was nothing in the vast, unending universe that could ever tear that away from them.

And when Briggs shoved his hand between her thighs, groaning in a sickening caricature of pleasure, she told him the same, her face serene and her eyes never wavering from his. This maddening, magnificent woman, who had upended his life from the foundation and showed him that it was alright for him to actually live it, to _enjoy_ it, gave him the gift of herself even as she gave her body to a twisted, perverted psychopath so she could spare Dot — sweet, innocent, loyal Dot — from a fate worse than death.

Jack kept nothing back: everything he felt for her, about her, all the things he had refused to tell her out of fear and guilt, and everything he had choked on when pride and self-preservation flared up to protect ( _hide_ ) him because he didn’t believe she wanted it. Couldn’t believe she wanted _him_. He’d been unable to bring himself to speak of it because he had given so much of himself to her that he had to keep just that last little bit of _Jack_ safe. But in this moment, he was finally able to give her the full measure of his devotion, his support, and his unshakeable love, opening himself completely to her because he knew that she did understand.

But he was unable to beat down the dark retribution that he craved and he inadvertently gave her a much deeper understanding of this part of himself, which he kept so securely locked away because what he was capable of, especially when it came to her, was . . . unimaginable. He needed to _feel_ that worthless wrist snapping like a twig in his hands, and hear the sound of those disrespectful fingers being shattered under his boot heel. He wanted nothing so much as to stop those obscene grunts of pleasure by cutting that _filthy_ tongue from his mouth. And with the slightest encouragement from her, he would willingly fling himself down that shadowed path and never look back, lest he drag her down with him. Orpheus to her Eurydice.

Seeing the same rage in her was enough to jolt him back to his senses and he nearly lost the last vestige of his control when she pushed hers aside, her open, shining gaze telling him that she understood, oh, yes . . . but she did not fear him. She trusted him, because he trusted her, and while he would always catch her if she stumbled, it would be from his place at her side. Never behind. And she would do the same for him. She gave him her faith that he understood and would not let this destroy them and shared her hopes for them and what they could be — would be — in the future.

But when the sound of a zipper echoed through the tomb silent room and Briggs forced her to her knees, Jack Robinson started to rise, with every intention of ripping her tormenter’s still-beating heart from his chest . . . until she stilled him when she poured her love into his aching, bleeding heart. He absorbed it voraciously, basking in this much-longed-for knowledge that soothed so many of his torn and bruised edges, and letting it ease his bloodlust, before sending it back . . . only what she received was a perfect blend of her love and his, because he was her equal here as in all else, and there was no power in the whole of creation that could change that. Or take them away from each other.

And they made it through this the way they triumphed everywhere else.

Together.


	3. Conflagration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well . . . I really don't have anything to say except 'here you go.'
> 
> ::is really, really nervous::

_ Conflagration _

~~~

_. . . there are some people who are so much a part of us, they’ll be with us no matter what. They are our solid ground. Our North Star. And the small clear voices in our hearts that will be with us . . . always.” — Alexis Castle (Castle, S04E23 — Always)_

~~~

It was almost surreal, how fast the takedown happened. One of the gang members suddenly snapped, “Time!” and everyone started in surprise. Everyone except Jack, Phryne, and Briggs. Jack and Phryne never broke eye contact, and Jack could have identified as a granite statue, while the lover and the detective inspector fought a silent war for control . . . until Briggs stepped back, smirking down at her and holding his still-hard cock. Only then did he get Jack’s attention, but it was the obscene stroke he gave himself as he sneered, “Too bad, doll,” that broke the precarious equilibrium of balance that Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher’s heart, was fighting to maintain with Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.

Phryne Fisher’s lover was stronger.

He’d vaguely heard Gibson counting down in his ear, and it was fortuitous that his count of ‘one’ coincided with Briggs taking himself out of Phryne’s danger zone, because he no longer possessed the ability to wait a single second more. Her pearl-handled pistol was a perfect extension of Jack’s arm and he put a bullet straight into Briggs’ groin with pure, vindictive hatred, _relishing_ that agonized scream. Control returned the second he pulled the trigger and he pivoted on his right knee, thanking God that the other four men were now standing next to each other, guns down or put away in preparation for a fast escape, as he squeezed off two more shots in immediate succession, hitting his targets dead on. Both men went down, crying out and clutching their shattered knees. Gibson was less successful; his first shot took out a hefty chunk of the fourth man’s lower right forearm, which resulted in him dropping his gun (but not the money; the detective inspector had to admire his commitment). The second missed the fifth man by a bare few inches, but it gave Jack enough time to sight him down.

And he’d already seen that Jack Robinson didn’t miss. Not today.

Jack’s breathing was calm and easy as cop and robber eyed each other for a moment while the robber’s fight or flight instincts fought a vicious war that neither side won, and he obeyed without so much as a quibble when Jack ended the stalemate with a snapped, “Put the gun down and _carefully_ push it toward me.” Once that was done, he dropped to his knees with his hands behind his head, and Jack came to his feet, yanking his tie off. He had the man’s wrists tightly bound and him secured to a pole in less than a minute, and while Gibson and Barnes did the same with their ties on the man who wasn’t down and one of the two that Jack had shot, he finally allowed himself to look back. Phryne was still kneeling on the floor, but she’d taken Briggs’s weapon and was holding him at gunpoint, her face expressionless.

Except to Jack.

He crossed the room like a tidal wave, utterly oblivious to the people who scrambled to get the hell out of his way lest he capsize them in his wake, and fell to his knees at her side, his hands shaking with the need to touch her and make sure she was unharmed. But he didn’t dare, couldn’t risk it, and frantically sought her eyes instead. They had been his touchstone today, his anchor, and he needed that now just so he could breathe. She met his desperate gaze unflinchingly, without hesitation, and his breath sobbed in his throat when he saw that relief and a touch of happiness at seeing him (that expression had burned itself into his memory when he’d come to Maiden Creek at her call) had overshadowed everything else in her eyes.

“You alright, Miss Fisher?” he murmured in a thick voice, the memory soothing him even as he fought down the urge to sink into the full intimacy of that moment. Instead, he fell back to the cold comfort of formality and let it calm him as his body began to accept that this nightmare was over. He shifted deliberately to deep breathing, noting with satisfaction that Phryne followed his lead, and in a very short time, they had both gotten back to a fairly even keel.

For the moment.

“All the better for seeing you, Inspector,” she replied, following his lead and giving him just enough of a personal touch to ground him before going to the level of formality he had established. She hadn’t called him ‘inspector’ seriously in months and he found he couldn’t bite back a soft snort of amusement (and if it was tinged with what might be termed ‘hysterical relief’, he dismissed the charges) at hearing it, while a tiny answering smile warmed her eyes. All he wanted to do was hold her, pull her so close they that they melded into one person, and just bask in her presence ( _she was safe_ ; she was safe and unhurt, and God willing, unharmed), but they couldn’t. Not yet. So he called the detective inspector back to the surface so he could attend to the necessary clean-up, knowing that she would understand.

The amount of effort it took should have warned him.

“Good,” he breathed. “Then, might I solicit the use of your scarf?” he inquired, pointing to the crumpled brown silk. “And yours, Miss Williams?” he added, giving the girl a quick look. He knew without asking that Phryne had already made sure Dot was as alright as she could be given the circumstances, and he wasn’t fool enough to try and improve on that. He did make a mental note to talk to both women before anyone said anything to Hugh Collins, though; that was going to be a tricky situation.

“Of course,” Miss Fisher replied, unwinding the fabric with practiced ease and laying it over his open palm; Dot said nothing but followed suit quickly and Jack thanked them both before giving Phryne one last wistful look and rising, moving immediately to secure Briggs. The man was still whimpering and holding his groin, tears of agony leaking down his cheeks and his mouth bloody from where he’d bitten his tongue, and Jack was unable to suppress a vicious smile of satisfaction at the sight. He permitted himself 30 seconds to relish it before taking a savage joy in yanking both hands behind his back and hog-tying the bastard with Miss Williams’ scarf, only to be caught off-guard when he abruptly, really _registered_ the man’s half-dressed state . . . and remembered what he had intended for Phryne. In an instant, the desire to finish castrating Briggs with his bare hands flared up like an oil-soaked, lit match, only to be safely extinguished by Sebastian Barnes’ sudden arrival, as he helped lift the bank robber off the floor and shove (well, drag) him into his own corner to await the arrival of the police.

“I’ve got him, Robinson,” Barnes said, keeping himself between Jack and Briggs as he gestured to Gibson. “Go help Malcolm; backup should be here in less than ten minutes.”

Jack swallowed and nodded, his eyes involuntarily flicking to Phryne once more before he turned away. He’d only gone a few steps, though, when the rumble of a soft male voice came to his ears — as did a sudden sharp intake of breath he recognized immediately as her in distress. It stopped him in his tracks and he pivoted, bringing her gun up in pure protective instinct and hearing the sound of another revolver being chambered as he did.

Barnes, who had been reaching out for Briggs’ gun, froze. His eyes were comically wide with shock and fixed first on Phryne — or, rather, the gun she was aiming unflinchingly at his head — before darting to the weapon Jack had leveled at him from another angle, and he swallowed so hard that Jack’s throat ached in empathy.

“I — I . . . was . . . just — I, I was going to use, um . . . I was going to use the gun to guard him,” he finally stuttered, his eyes darting nervously between his detective inspector and his private detective partner who, together, had just successfully brought down one of the most vicious gang of bank robbers in Australia’s history.

It did not escape his notice that Miss Fisher looked to Jack and didn’t move any other muscle until, after a very long minute that he also noticed, the inspector gave a single curt nod. Without a word or any other objection, she offered Barnes the gun, handle first, and eased back a few inches, reaching out to take Dot’s hand and squeeze as her gaze returned to Briggs. Her free hand dropped to her thigh and curled into a fist around the dagger concealed under the skirt, and Jack was silently grateful to see it. She _was_ armed, and could protect herself if need be. There was nothing but contempt in her expression as she stared at Briggs, which Jack took another moment to be thankful for; like him, Phryne was a master at concealing her emotions in the normal course of events, and he knew full well that she (hell, both of them) were shoving everything aside until they were home and safe. But he also knew _her_ , and if Briggs had truly harmed her, her composure would be even calmer, steadier . . . icier. But her eyes wouldn’t be nearly as clear.

And Howard Briggs would be dead twice over.

Her distress had reignited his need to touch her, so Jack made a Herculean effort to regain enough control to do so safely and was able to allow himself one soft, reassuring squeeze to her upper arm, getting a gentle return clasp from her fingers, before forcing himself to obey his orders and help Gibson secure the last prisoner. And then they were all caught up in the controlled melee of arresting the five men, getting the injured to ambulances as needed and a police motorcar if not, with Jack and Gibson heading directly to City East to fill out the requisite paperwork and reports (and how was it, Jack thought irritably, that he _helped_ with an arrest that wasn’t _in his district_ and he STILL had to fill out paperwork?!).

He did take the time to call Doctor MacMillan and send her to Wardlow, although he’d been unable to tell her why. All he could say was that Phryne would need her and Dot would need both of them. With her reassurance that she was on her way, he settled enough to focus on putting the day’s happenings down on paper in stark black and white. It didn’t come close to touching the true horror of events, but recounting it in a dry, impersonal medium allowed Jack to settle his emotions a bit and start coming to terms with things.

It was working, that methodical process of summarizing a report and reporting just the details. In putting them down, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson found his own actions to be acceptable, his fellow inspector had performed exceptionally well, and Miss Fisher, yet again, had been instrumental to the day’s success. All he had to do now was sign it and everything would be done.

But for some reason, he was unable to touch pen to paper on that line. He could (and did, as a test) add more to the report itself, but he could not put down his signature. He tried everything he could think of, not even registering that his hands, always steady and unwavering, had started to shake and his mind was slowly filling with fog that felt hot and thick. He just kept trying to sign that damned paper, even going so far as using his left hand to try and force his right. But in the end, it made no difference. No matter what attempts he made, Jack simply could not sign that report.

And then the pen snapped in his fingers as the fog seared his brain and the detective inspector was gone, burned away under the tormented rage of Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher’s heart, finally breaking free.

~~~

There it was. Gibson had been waiting for this for about an hour, and he was relieved beyond words to finally see it. Now he just had to get Jack out of the room before he literally hurt someone.

“Ah. Come on, Jackalope,” he said, using a nickname that one of the other cadets had tried — and failed — to saddle Jack with at the Academy (it had lasted less than 36 hours and six of those had occurred because the man himself was asleep), hoping that it would needle him _just enough_ to keep the rage at bay until Gibson could get him somewhere safe. Jack slowly turned his head, his eyes glittering with anguish, fury, grief, and — unbeknownst to him — more than a little madness. Malcolm swallowed hard at the sight, but stood his ground and held out a hand. “Come on. You need to beat the holy hell out of something and as it happens, we just got some new bags for the gym,” he coaxed, fully aware that he was grabbing a tiger by the tail. But it was necessary and he was one of two men at City East who could likely withstand the storm that was about to break (he had boxed for the army and Jenkins did it for a professional amateur hobby). Thankfully, Paul was also working today and Gibson had just sent him down to the gym to get ready. There was going to be blood and a lot more bruising before this was over.

The tantalizing promise of violence ( _acceptable_ violence) snared Jack’s attention and he slowly rose from the chair, his movements so fluid and predatory that Gibson mentally renamed him ‘Tiger’ even as he swallowed again when he realized that madness was the only thing he could see now in that fever-bright gaze. Oh, this was going to hurt. But it had to be done; he sure as hell wasn’t unleashing _that_ on an unsuspecting populace, much less Miss Fisher, so he cautiously put a hand on the other man’s wrist and started walking to the basement door. His fellow DI obediently followed him in dead silence, which was unnerving, but not nearly as much as the anticipation that was starting to spark the air.

In retrospect, maybe they _should_ have encouraged Robinson to kill Briggs, or at least let him hit the bastard a few times. This was going to hurt _a_ _lot._

Still, Gibson got it: it wasn’t just that the woman Jack loved had been forced to let herself be — well. But worse, for him, he had been trapped, with no option but to stand there helplessly and watch it happen. **_Let_** it happen. Frankly, Malcolm was astonished by the control he’d shown up to now; had it been him in Robinson’s shoes, Malcolm was reasonably sure he’d have destroyed the bank with his bare hands and there was no way on earth Howard Briggs would have walked out of the building. However, that control had finally shattered and it was Gibson’s duty to keep his citizens safe until the storm had passed.

He didn’t have a clue.

Forget storm: Jack Robinson was a fucking tsunami. And for the next forty or so minutes, Malcolm Gibson and Paul Jenkins actually fought for their lives against a man who had trained with one of the best professional fighters in the business. He took both of them apart with an ease that was as terrifying as it was enviable, especially since very little of it could be attributed to his rage-enhanced reflexes. In fact, Gibson wouldn’t have sworn that either of them actually managed to land more than one or two serious hits in return. That was alarming in and of itself, but the truly frightening part was that Jack never made a single sound. Not when he threw Malcolm across the room like he was a bloody rag doll, not when he knocked Jenkins flat on his ass with an open-palmed uppercut that should not have been powerful enough to do it, and not when he hit that brand-new punching bag so hard the chain broke on the backswing (the chain in question was somewhat weaker than it should have been, but it. still. broke.).

He didn’t make a sound when every last ounce of energy drained from his body like water from a kicked-over bucket and he crumpled in a corner, sliding down the wall to land in a silently-sobbing heap on the floor.

Gibson broke for him then. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do, except guard his privacy and make sure that no one ever knew of this unless Jack himself spoke of it. He looked up and found Jenkins immediately; the other man was crouched at an angle from Robinson and watching him carefully, but with understanding, absently wiping away a few drops of blood seeping from a cut on his chin. He’d been one of the officers who’d come as backup and arrested the gang, so it was safe to assume he knew enough to be trusted. Still, Malcolm softly cleared his throat and quietly stated, “Not one word of this ever leaves your lips, Paul. Ever.”

Jenkins nodded instantly, eyes wide with solemn promise. “No,” he answered. “I swear it. And I’ll talk to the others and make sure they keep their mouths shut, too. He deserves that.”

Oh, thank God. Malcolm was so relieved to have that problem taken care of that he thought for a minute he might cry himself for the sheer relief of it. He was able to maintain his composure, though, and simply nodded. “Thanks, Paul,” he said. “You’ve been a lifesaver today, truly. Now get out of here and take tomorrow off. I’ll see you back on your regular shift Friday.”

Jenkins needed no further encouragement and made for the shower, finishing astonishingly quickly, and was up the stairs and gone in less than ten minutes, earning a bemused (and impressed) shake of his inspector’s head. Gibson took a deep breath and turned his full attention over to Jack, worried about what he was going to see, only to curse in sheer surprise at finding a calm, clear gaze waiting for him.

“Am I that fragile?” Robinson asked ruefully, mouth quirking in a tiny smile that faded as he scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Uhh . . .”

Truth be told, Malcolm didn’t have a clue how to answer that. The man had been a desolate heap of misery not fifteen minutes ago, a crazed whirlwind of grief-stricken rage for almost an hour before _that_ , and now he looked completely calm and in full control of himself?

No. No, ‘fragile’ really wasn’t the word he would have chosen.

A soft huff of amusement answered his indecision and Gibson was suddenly reminded of a Jack Robinson trait that had driven every single man at the Academy — instructors included — up the wall: his ability to change emotions on a dime without so much as a blink. It was one of the things that made him a superb interrogator, but Malcolm knew from a friend that it had made more than one man drink like a bloody fish.

On the other hand, it was an excellent sign; like most people who bear the sheer, unfathomable depth of control over himself that Jack did, once it was gone, that was it. There was no getting it back until whatever had caused the loss of it had been eradicated. They were all or nothing, that type of person: calm as glass until they shattered (though too often taking everyone in the vicinity with them). And they usually cut themselves even deeper with each shard they gathered while putting themselves back together. But. Once it was done, they were calm and in control once again. So if Jack was composed and quiet now, it stood to reason that the uncontrollable rage was gone, and his equilibrium had more-or-less been recovered.

Testing this theory, Malcolm offered a hesitant, “All right, then?”

He wasn’t expecting a truthful verbal answer, but Jack’s body language would tell him what he needed to know. Thankfully (and astonishingly), body and voice both confirmed that Jack was fine . . . or rather, was well on the way. It wasn’t going to happen immediately, but the acidic rage and poisonous grief had been purged, leaving healing and what looked like acceptance in their wake.

And because Gibson was a both a fellow DI and a fellow man, he didn’t say another word; instead, he carefully stood up, offered Jack a hand, and left him alone to shower and make himself presentable to the world again. He did the same for himself, albeit quite a bit faster than Jack, and was back at his desk a good fifteen minutes before the other man emerged. Out of habit, he ran a quick, assessing look over Jack’s desk and blanched when he saw that shattered pen, quickly tossing the pieces in his trash can before putting one of his own on the desktop to replace it; he didn’t _think_ the other man would lose control again, but there was no sense in risking it, either. When Jack finally came back upstairs, he didn’t acknowledge Gibson at all, which he was both expecting and grateful for. He neither needed nor wanted thanks for what he had done; you took care of your fellow brothers-in-arms, and Jack would have done the same for him. His eyes narrowed with lingering concern, Gibson watched his fellow DI as he stopped beside his desk for a long minute before carefully seating himself, and his Adam’s apple bobbed from the force of his swallow before he picked up his report with steady hands and went back over it.

When he signed it on the first try, Gibson actually slumped over his desk in sheer relief. Jack would be alright.

Malcolm himself was going to buy the complete inventory of a liquor store tonight. This entire miserable day deserved a spectacular hangover, and he suspected that he’d need to shoulder Jack’s as well his own.

And that was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make.

~~~

Jack never would remember unleashing the full force of his emotions on Gibson and Jenkins, not even in flashes. His mind was in complete blackout mode from the moment his rage overtook him until the instant the last drop of it drained from him in his agonized sobs. Thankfully, clarity had quickly followed and brought a measure of peace with it. He wasn’t alright with what had happened today, and he never would be, not completely . . . but he could accept it now. And he was able to forgive himself for not doing anything to stop it, buoyed by the sure knowledge that not only would she say the same, but each piece of evidence supported it. With his mind clear for the first time since he’d seen Phryne in the lobby, Jack was able to finish his report and sign it, make everything official. It was still one of the harder things he’d ever had to do, but he was able to be dispassionate and maintain a healthy distance, and that was what he needed more than anything while he was still on the clock, still Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.

But now that it was done, so was he. He needed to see her, talk to her, touch her . . . Jack Robinson, her lover, wanted to drown himself in Phryne Fisher and stay there until time itself ended.

And by God, he was going to.

He knew that Barnes had interviewed both Miss Fisher and Miss Williams and he had felt it — _sensed it_ — when Phryne left the building, which meant he had no reason to stay. Everything he needed to say was in his report, and if Barnes wanted more information, he could wait a few days. It wasn’t like there was anything earth-shattering in there.

(except that his world had been shattered today)

Jack was still holding onto enough civility to actually knock politely at the office Barnes had borrowed and wait for a response, but the minute he heard, “Come in!”, all bets were off. He opened the door, swept in, and met Barnes’ gaze. Without preamble, he stated, “Gibson has my report, the paperwork is ready to file, and I’m taking a week off. Sir.”

Barnes blinked. Then he gave Jack a careful once-over before meeting his eyes and arching a brow.

“A week?”

It was a challenge.

And an extremely bad idea.

Under normal circumstances, Jack Robinson was the model police officer: obedient, meticulous, thorough, concerned with justice above all else, tenacious, and loyal.

These were not normal circumstances. And right now, every single one of the traits that had made him the second-youngest Detective Inspector in the history of the Victorian Constabulary had been given over to Phryne Fisher. Anything that kept him from her side now would be considered an enemy. The devil himself could have gotten between Jack and Phryne and would very quickly have died to regret it.

“Yes,” Jack rasped in reply, his eyes going cold with danger. The temperature in the room actually dropped. “And I am not to be contacted or disturbed unless the world is literally about to end. I haven’t taken a personal day in over eight years; I’ve earned a week. And City South is more than able to run efficiently for that long with my second, Senior Sergeant Hawkins, in charge while I’m gone.”

Barnes raised both eyebrows, but proved himself to be both smarter and more circumspect than either of his predecessors could claim, and simply nodded his acquiescence. He hadn’t risen to his position by being stupid, after all. And he’d been in that bank.

Jack was pulling the door shut behind him when Barnes called, “Good work today, Inspector. I intend to put you up for a commendation.”

Every muscle in his body locked and Jack froze. A commen—no. No, he did not deserve praise for today. The very thought made him sick. He twisted around and gave Barnes a hard look.

“Don’t. I will not accept it.”

And he was gone.

His Northern Star was calling him home.

~~~

Sebastian Barnes stared thoughtfully at the door to his borrowed office and slowly shook his head. Jack Robinson was an enigma he was no closer to unraveling than when he’d accepted this position a month ago. It spoke volumes about his personality — and his authority — that Barnes had given in to his demand for time off with no argument. He would have shut literally anyone else down for that kind of breathtaking impertinence, but he’d made only a token attempt with Robinson. He’d heard that the man was dangerous (among a host of other, more colorful descriptors, both good and bad), but to actually _feel_ the temperature in the room change from the force of his displeasure . . .

No. Barnes was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. And the fact that it would get the man out of sight for a while as the last few tendrils of the Sanderson mess were sorted out was a bonus he would gladly take. The sound of his office door opening caught Barnes’ attention and he briefly glanced up as Malcolm Gibson stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and collapsing into a chair with a sigh of utter exhaustion.

“How’d it go?” he asked the commissioner as he got comfortable. “With Jack, I mean,” he added as he handed a thick stack of papers across the desk.

“He’s taking a week off,” Barnes replied drily, accepting the reports with a slight grimace; he was not looking forward to going through this one again.

“Really?” Gibson said, sounding unsurprised. “Your idea or his?”

Barnes did not appreciate the insinuation and gave his DI a hard look before muttering, “His.” Then he took a second look and blinked in surprise at the man’s bruised and swelling forehead.

There was a long minute or two of silence in which Gibson looked defiant and Barnes remembered what Jack Robinson had been forced to do today . . . and the expression on his face when it was over and he was securing Briggs. God willing, he’d never see that look in a man’s eyes ever again. Just the memory sent a chill through him. The times he’d been afraid of a man were rare, but in that moment, Jack Robinson had utterly terrified him. Barnes could only be grateful that he’d been fast enough to get between his officer and the bank robber, and offered an actual prayer of thanks that the control he’d heard about hadn’t been a myth. Otherwise, Sebastian Barnes was convinced he would have seen murder committed right in front of him.

And even now, he couldn’t find it in himself to think that would have been the worst thing to happen . . . though he strongly suspected that Robinson wouldn’t have felt an ounce of regret.

Yes, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was a very dangerous man indeed.

“Well,” Gibson finally said in a bland voice, breaking his train of thought. “I can hardly blame him.”

Truthfully, neither could Barnes, which was another reason he hadn’t argued, but it was still a sore point with him — and the entirety of the Commissioner’s Board, in fact. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson frustrated them. Worse, he made them nervous.

“So what’s their story?” he demanded, hoping he’d finally get some answers about this lady detective who had been held in such contempt by George Sanderson and such lascivious respect by Stuart Hall. The few officers at City South he’d spoken to so far had nothing but praise for both the woman and her work with their Detective Inspector, but the other stations she’d worked with had barely been respectful, and that scant respect had been heavily underscored with mockery. It was a conundrum, and one that made zero sense, especially given the impression he had formed during the robbery and after, when he’d interviewed her. It — she — was a mystery, and he was at a loss as to how to go about solving it, though he readily admitted he already had quite a bit of respect for Miss Fisher.

He had also developed a healthy respect for Miss Dorothy Williams. The young woman hadn’t said a word the entire time, having clearly been traumatized (completely understandable, considering she had been the intended victim and so knew exactly what would have been done to her), but once he’d declared his intention to interview Miss Fisher — well, take her official statement; it had to be done and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Robinson to do it (and, quite frankly, his curiosity had nearly eaten him alive by then) — by herself, Miss Williams had visibly pushed aside her fear and made it abundantly clear that hell would freeze over and stay that way before she allowed her employer to be alone with a man right then. Especially one that neither of them knew and therefore had no reason to trust.

And she’d done it without speaking so much as a syllable. Barnes hadn’t even tried to dissuade her; he’d merely hidden a sigh and waved them in to his temporary office. The pride and amusement in Miss Fisher’s eyes hadn’t escaped him, either . . . and neither did the relief.

Oh yes, the Honorable Miss Fisher was a mystery indeed. He could feel the headache forming now, though it was accompanied by admiration.

And then there was Jack Robinson. The headache intensified. The man was . . . was . . .

Exactly. And now his blasted headache was trying to balloon into a migraine. He was actually starting to feel a little sympathy for both Hall and Sanderson, if they’d had to deal with that pair for any extended period of time. And even after seeing them in action today, he _still_ wasn’t any closer to getting any kind of real understanding of Robinson (and he wasn’t going to try with Miss Fisher. Not today.).

However, Malcolm had been in the Academy with his fellow DI, so he was hoping to get a clearer picture about the man who had taken down so many (too many) high-profile individuals in the last two years.

It was his report on the _Pandarus_ and everything with Sanderson and Fletcher that had really started this whole mess; reading that account of things had been like trying to make sense of a penny-dreadful. It had been that convoluted and, frankly, unbelievable. In fact, it was the unanimous opinion of the Commissioner’s Board that _Robinson_ was the bad egg, and they had been making every move in that direction until the unbelievably thorough review of his case files (and those at City South in general, not to mention the witness who had sealed the child-trafficking ring) had forced them to understand — and, worse, admit — that he was, in fact, telling the truth. Especially when it was paired with an equally deep review of Sanderson’s history. Frankly, the lengths the man had gone to in order to keep his former son-in-law away from his affairs were astounding . . . until one understood just how good a cop Jack Robinson was.

This was a fact the Commissioner’s Board didn’t want to accept; hence, Barnes’ statewide review of the stations now under his purview. They couldn’t _all_ be so incompetent to have missed Sanderson’s corruption, so it had to be a cop framing him. And who better than the man who took him down? The man who had been married to his daughter until he’d been divorced because he couldn’t function as a good husband, with his father-in-law smoothing the way? What better way to get revenge?

“Jack and his lady detective?” Malcolm clarified, raising an eyebrow and getting a nod that concealed a great many things. “Well, I can’t tell you much about her; she’s never worked any cases with us, so all I know is what’s in the papers and what my lads hear from City South,” he started, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. “But I have to say, those papers aren’t worth the ink they’re printed with,” he said with a scowl. “Not after what she did today. Although, I’m honestly not sure what to — how to define it,” he added. “It . . . it wasn’t rape, but . . . I . . . I don’t think ‘indecency’ . . . I really don’t know what to put down, here, Sir.”

An awkward pause ensued before Barnes finally replied, “That’s a damn good question. We’ll have him on five other charges of rape and murder, so he is definitely going to hang, and we’ve also got them all on bank robbery, but she . . . I . . . Miss Fisher said she doesn’t — that he didn’t actually — you know, and didn’t mention anything about pursuing charges, which — but . . . I say that she deserves justice too.”

“Hmm,” Gibson grunted in answer. “Well . . . in that case, I would go along with her wishes. If she changes her mind, at least getting it done won’t be a problem for her.”

“Agreed,” Barnes said immediately, relieved beyond words to have gotten that issue out of the way. “But what about Robinson?” he asked again, wanting to get back on track for several reasons.

“Jack? Well, to be honest, I always thought he was Sanderson’s man through and through, bought and paid for,” Gibson began, just as thankful to have gotten that done. “I mean, he was married to the man’s daughter and on top of that, he survived the Strike of ’23 — but he hadn’t actually been promoted to Senior Sergeant yet. And then he makes Senior DI less than five years later? We all thought it,” he said ruefully, with the knowledge of both hindsight and experience. “And then she showed up and his arrest record actually went up — and so did his conviction rate, which given it started at just over 95% for him individually is . . . well, scary,” he continued, wiping a hand over his mouth and giving a small wince. “So of course they were sleeping together. But the thing is, both Hall and Sanderson hated her, though I never did figure out what Hall’s problem was. But that’s when a lot of us started to realize that Jack is just that good a cop; for his numbers to go up that much while he’s working with a civilian neither of his immediate superiors liked or approved of was . . . telling.”

“So they are sleeping together, then,” Barnes interjected with a nod.

And was promptly blindsided by Gibson quirking an eyebrow, looking at his watch, and saying, “Not yet.”

The new commissioner was vaguely aware his mouth was open in shock, but he simply could not process that. Not after what he’d seen today.

“Th-they have to be,” he finally objected. “It—they—you saw what I did!”

“Yes,” Gibson agreed. “But that doesn’t change the facts. And the fact is, they aren’t. Hell, up until a few months ago, she was out with a different man every other day, I swear. And that’s not something Robinson — well. So, no, they aren’t sleeping together. Yet.”

“But they will be,” Barnes said quietly, looking down. He really didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken, because he was under strong . . . encouragement . . . to end this partnership. It was a notion he’d been in full favor of until today, and now he was torn. On the one hand, allowing a civilian — especially a woman — to get so heavily involved in police business was just asking for trouble. On the other hand, watching them work together had been incredible. And eye-opening. He could only wish all of the officers now under his command were as well-trained, observant, and efficient as Phryne Fisher and Jack Robinson had shown themselves to be. And if they were already a couple, he could use that as a counter-argument to allow them to keep working together.

Lying about it never occurred to him.

“Mm,” Gibson hummed in agreement, rubbing at his forehead and wincing again. “But it’s a matter of degrees at this point; it’s not going to make any difference to how they work together.”

Barnes’ head shot up at that, his eyes wide with surprise. “Explain,” he demanded curtly.

Gibson blinked. “Well . . . you said it yourself: look at today. The way they feel about each other was patently obvious to everyone in the room who had eyes; I think that poor adolescent girl actually blushed.”

Barnes had to fight down a snicker at that; the girl had indeed gone tomato red, and it had not been a good look against her white-blond hair, though he strongly suspected that it had been less to do with the _look_ Miss Fisher and Jack Robinson had been giving each other than with Robinson himself. He felt a little guilty for the rather uncharitable thought, but given the day he’d had, Barnes could not deny himself the reprieve of even inappropriate humor.

Oblivious to — or deliberately ignoring — his reaction, Gibson never stopped talking . . . and it took no time at all to bring the commissioner back to the unpleasant reality they were all living in now. “But that — their feelings, I mean — not only did it _not_ stop them from enacting her plan, neither of them so much as blinked in hesitation. Hell, they didn’t even have to talk to each other to implement it! More importantly, Jack didn’t kill that bastard. And let’s be honest, he could have without so much as a murmur from anyone. Including us,” he added with a gesture between himself and Barnes.

Well, yes, that was true, Barnes conceded to himself. He’d been surprised by the man’s restraint, actually, and then impressed. He also strongly approved of Robinson’s choice of punishment for that thieving, bastard rapist; it was poetic justice at its finest.

“But even more tellingly,” Gibson continued, unaware of his superior’s train of thought, “you’ll notice that he didn’t look to either of us once to include us in their plan. But he also didn’t look to us at all to formulate our own. It didn’t even occur to him. I mean, yes, he gave me a weapon,” he added with a slight grimace. “But that was pure practicality: if her purse was searched, they’d have found her gun, and having two armed cops made the most tactical sense.”

“Right,” Barnes said slowly, watching his DI carefully, unsure as to where he was going with this.

“But if we hadn’t been there — or if he hadn’t already been armed — I would be willing to bet a substantial amount of money that the outcome would have been the exact same, with the possible exception that Jack would have killed Briggs.”

“Hmm,” Barnes hummed thoughtfully. No, he hadn’t considered any of this. And he really, really should have.

Gibson continued, his voice softening a little with the recollection. “So, she offered herself and h—you really didn’t see it?” he interrupted himself, giving Barnes a puzzled look.

“See what?” the commissioner replied, raising both eyebrows in query.

“The second she started talking, he knew what she was thinking and without so much as a hand signal, they agreed on the necessity — and then Jack Robinson became a completely different man. I’ve seen it before, in the army,” he explained. “The minute a plan got put in motion, he shut the man down and turned into — well, ask him and he’ll probably tell you the detective inspector was running the show. And yes, that’s true,” he continued. “But I can also say there was a lot of Captain Robinson calling the shots, too. The military machine, who can function unnervingly well under the most unimaginable conditions.”

“And?” Barnes prodded, feeling like he might, finally, be starting to understand this brilliant, troublesome detective inspector he’d inherited.

“Well, it’s like this: he was with me, his counterpart, in _my_ district no less, and with you, his direct and immediate supervisor. And neither one of us crossed his mind once when it came to stopping this gang. Miss Fisher, on the other hand, he trusts completely — and the reverse, it seems. They didn’t have five minutes to come up with an idea, and let’s be honest: what sh-they put together was brilliant, as far as tactics go. And just from those few minutes we did get, I’d swear they were looking forward to it, at least at first. But you and I both know Jack’s reputation — and we went along with them without even trying to argue or change things. Frankly, I think that says . . . a lot about him.”

There were several long minutes of silence while Barnes digested everything he was hearing and correlated it with what he’d seen, both today and since he’d taken this job.

“So, back to your original question,” Gibson said, once again drawing his attention. “Jack Robinson is a model cop and one who holds the utmost respect for the position. Any position. He treats his constables with the same respect he gives you,” he added, holding up a hand when Barnes started to object (demanding a week’s leave without so much as a ‘by your leave’ was hardly showing respect). “You can’t hold today against him and you know it,” he stated, his eyes dark and serious. “This is an unusual set of circumstances. But I can tell you that as long as you stay above-board, Jack will continue to be a model cop. I mean, he didn’t go after Sanderson until he got so careless and blatant that a dead man would have known something was wrong. Not because he was covering for Sanderson, but because the DC was smart about it and made sure he never had cause to look. For that matter, he didn’t go after Commissioner Hall, either, because he wasn’t given any reason to.”

Gibson paused here, which Barnes was grateful for; he needed a minute to think.

“So,” he finally said, working his way out loud through the point he was trying to make. “Robinson — what? Just looks for wrong-doing as it comes up?”

He knew he sounded incredulous, but he simply couldn’t fathom the thought; anyone who genuinely believed and worked that way was doomed when it came to career advancement, and given that Robinson was the second-youngest DI in Victoria’s history, this made no sense.

Gibson gave a rueful smile as he explained.

“That’s exactly it, Sir. Jack has no desire at all to promote up from where he is now; he hates the politics it requires, but more than that, he loves what he does. Being a Senior Detective Inspector in charge of his own station gives him near-complete autonomy but keeps him active on the front lines, so to speak. The best of both worlds. I get that,” he added with a nod. “I don’t necessarily share it, but I get it.”

“Hmm,” Barnes murmured, mulling that over. Assuming this was true — and he currently had no reason to think otherwise — that was another point in favor of leaving Robinson where he was. It was also a compelling reason for allowing their partnership to continue.

“So,” Gibson finished, standing and taking a minute to flex his hands, “as long as you — and I mean that in every iteration, Sir,” he hastened to add, worry darkening his gaze for a few seconds. Barnes nodded his understanding and the man continued. “As long as you don’t go corrupt, Jack Robinson will be loyal and obedient. Let him work for you, _with_ you, and everyone will be happy.”

Then he strode out of the room, leaving an extremely thoughtful Sebastian Barnes in his wake.

And promptly derailed said thoughts by poking his head back through the door and saying, “Oh, and I wouldn’t recommend giving him a commendation. He won’t accept it.” Before the Commissioner could do more than blink in surprise, Gibson continued. “If you really want to do something for him — and her; God knows _she’s_ earned it — then put a gag order on the press and the witnesses. Stop them from talking to the media, or if you can’t, keep the press from reporting it. I’ve already got Jenkins putting the lid on my lads here; neither Jack nor Miss Fisher deserve the grief and humiliation the papers would put them through.”

This was an excellent idea — and a point Barnes hadn’t considered. “Thank you, Inspector,” he said, giving the other man a respectful nod. “That is definitely something I’ll look into. And speaking of rewards, take the next two days off. Your work today was outstanding.”

Gibson’s eyes shone with pride and gratitude and he came to attention. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, offering a handshake that Barnes accepted. Then he was gone and Chief Commissioner Sebastian Barnes was left alone to write a report explaining why he wasn’t going to stop or dissolve the partnership of Jack Robinson and Phryne Fisher. He was, in fact, going to recommend that it be made official, so she would have more options — and they would both have more protection.

As he started his first draft, Barnes reflected that being the head man wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

On the other hand, with men like Malcolm Gibson and Jack Robinson, he was unlikely to ever be bored. Add Phryne Fisher to the mix and he sure as hell would never become complacent.

And as he poured himself a scotch and toasted the incredible bravery and sacrifice he’d seen from the men — and woman — under his command, he smiled.

It was an excellent beginning.


	4. Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, kudos'd, and bookmarked this story; you guys are the most awesome fandom I've ever been involved in and you have made this entire story a truly blessed experience for me. 
> 
> Thank you again and now, I present: The Finale.

_ Embers _

~~~

_And_ _now abideth faith_ **_,_ ** _hope_ **_,_ ** _love_ _, these three; but the greatest of these is love. — 1 Corinthians 13:13_

~~~

Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan prided herself on very few things. Her intelligence was first and foremost among them, with loyalty taking second place by bare centimeters. Following Phryne’s recitation of the day, and having just completed an exam that — thank God — showed no physical harm had been done to her best friend, both of these traits manifested themselves in an impressively contained explosion of rage. She was only able to tamp down her fully-formed plan to castrate and then murder — no. No, she would execute by way of a live vivisection — Howard Briggs because the man was literally out of her reach, and also because Phryne was physically unharmed. But even knowing what her actions had cost Phryne, Mac still had to thank God that her friend had been in that damned bank today, because like both detectives, she well understood the necessity of that choice . . . and she had seen the direct effects of Briggs’ little ‘game’ at the Women’s Hospital. And like Jack, she held nothing but pride and admiration for it . . . but even though Phryne had been . . . willing . . . physically, Briggs had still emotionally raped her. And that wasn’t even taking in account the damage he had done to poor Dot.

For that alone, Mac would kill him without so much as a tremor in her hands.

And Jack Robinson would help her.

Unfortunately, that would destroy several lives, never mind the destruction Phryne would wreak getting her out of gaol (and God help the world if Jack was arrested, never mind harmed), so she would refrain — though in all seriousness, she _would_ need Jack to block her access to that rapist bastard, just to be on the safe side. She did offer praise to God, though, because she knew that Phryne was actually emotionally healthy enough to get through this with little true difficulty, especially with herself and Jack as a support system; that said, Mac would have confessed concern about his ability to cope until Phryne had spared her the necessity by recounting his actions, and then she wanted to snog the life out of him herself. Jack Robinson truly was worthy of her best friend. Despite that — or possibly because of that — Mac desperately hoped he was able to work at least a little of the rage and guilt out of his system before he came to Phryne . . . especially given the way he had sounded when he’d called her.

Not many things frightened Elizabeth MacMillan, but in that moment, Jack Robinson had been one of them. She didn’t know everything he was capable of, but she found herself genuinely worried that today would be the day they all found out. A man who kept himself under as strong and powerful a veneer of control as Jack did was, without question, a man whose emotions and passions would incinerate everything in their path if they were unleashed against his will. And Mac was rather terrified that this would topple him over that edge.

The only thing that kept her from actual, honest-to-God panic was Phryne. The doctor knew Jack well enough to understand that he would keep that iron-clad control in place until _after_ the world ended if that would ensure Phryne’s well-being, even if it meant destroying his own in the process . . . but she also understood that a genuine word from her friend would have Jack razing Australia to the ground if that was the only way to keep her safe. And happy.

And dammit, Mac really liked Australia.

But Phryne wasn’t the type to indulge in that kind of vengeance; instead, she had a tendency to turn her rage inward and ravage herself, and Mac knew she would need to be very, very careful in drawing it out. It might be a cliché, but ‘like poison lanced from a wound’ was also deadly accurate, and her job was going to be nigh-on impossible: she was going to have to coax Phryne into a willing understanding and acceptance that what had been done to her today was neither her fault nor her responsibility. More, she also had to help her reach the conclusion that there had been no other true options available, and she had done everything it was possible to do. The bitter irony of the whole miserable situation was that this exact thing was Phryne’s normal _modus operandi_ , but the presence of Jack and Dot had thrown her into an unexpected tailspin and she would be hard-pressed to regain her equilibrium.

And as a result of _all_ of it, Phryne would likely be more stub — no, actually, she’d be less inclined to listen to any suggestion that reined her in, which was understandable (it was going to be aggravating, to be sure, but understandable), and Mac made a mental note to be prepared to act as a law-skirting (well, more likely ‘law-breaking’, if she was honest) sidekick with considerably more frequency for a while. If Phryne wasn’t going to slow down ( ** _if_**. Ha!), then Mac refused to put Jack — or let Phryne do it — in a position where he had to choose between obeying the law and protecting the woman he loved.

Mac had no such scruples. She could and would keep Phryne from going too far when events turned . . . fraught. But most importantly, Phryne would listen to her if things became that serious. Because the truth was, if killing someone was the ultimate best solution, Mac would help her, no questions asked, and _vice versa_. So if she told Phryne ‘no,’ her friend would heed her, and pull back.

But that was all academic. Right now, what Phryne needed more than anything was touch therapy; Briggs had taught her body that touch was unwelcome, but it wasn’t a deep-seeded response, and intellectually, Phryne knew that. Emotionally . . .

Mac poured them both one final shot of whisky before tugging Phryne into the chair with her and wrapping her in a full-body hug; neither woman spoke, and the doctor calmly ignored the tears streaking down her friend’s cheeks, even as she relaxed into Mac’s embrace. She wasn’t going to heal overnight, but this was a solid start and she whispered a quiet ‘thank you’ to the heavens that Phryne wasn’t trying to bottle everything up. More than anything else, that told Mac she would be fine, and not suffer any permanent effects from this day.

After perhaps an hour, Phryne drifted off. They’d spoken only sporadically as they watched the fire; once had been about the events of the day and once had been about René DuBois. This was the other major reason Mac knew that Phryne had suffered no lasting harm: the simple fact that she could speak of that — that thrice-damned, worthless bastard with equanimity was a resounding victory in a battle that had been almost a decade in the fighting. The fact that she could do so after what she’d endured this day was both awe-inspiring and a testament of Phryne’s indomitable spirit. And it brought tears to Mac’s eyes, because she hadn’t realized until just that moment how afraid she had been that what Briggs had done might be the blow that cracked Phryne’s soul.

Never in her life had she been so happy to be wrong.

Phryne’s other spare, quiet words had been memories of happier, simpler times in their friendship, times that Phryne used to reaffirm Mac’s support (and, tellingly, Jack Robinson’s) as well as her own resiliency. And with every exchange, Mac could _feel_ Phryne coming back to herself. She had sworn to Mac more than once that she would never again let anyone force her to be less than she was, and if DuBois couldn’t manage it, the doctor was finally well-assured that Howard Briggs sure as hell wasn’t going to.

Grunting a little as her friend suddenly became dead weight (ah; she’d gone from ‘drifting’ to ‘a siren in her ear couldn’t wake her’. Good.), Mac carefully eased her way free and stood up, wincing at the ache in her shoulders. The other woman didn’t stir and Mac smiled at her, taking a deep breath and another shot of whisky before heading for the stairs.

She really had no idea how to help Dot, but it had to be her; the girl was clearly sick with guilt and therefore avoiding her mistress like the plague . . . and there was no other female in her life that Mac knew of who could be called on. However, on reflection, she had come to the sudden, startling realization that Dot reminded her a great deal of how Phryne had been just after she’d managed to escape René DuBois. Well, that was helpful; Mac had gotten Phryne through that with everyone’s sanity intact, and it would at least give her a place to begin in helping Dot on the road to healing.

She was relieved beyond words to find the young woman out of the bath, but concern flared back up when she saw that Dot had only gotten as far as putting on a dressing gown before settling herself in front of her mirror, her eyes blank. From the listless, mindless way she was drawing a brush through her frighteningly straight hair, she’d been there entirely too long. Mac had seen this fugue state before and mentally grimaced; this was going to require a touch she wasn’t sure she possessed the delicacy to handle.

Still, it was her or nothing, so with a deep breath, Mac walked into Dot’s room and carefully caught her wrist, stopping the mindless strokes and gently removing the hairbrush. That was enough to bring the girl back to the world outside her head, and she gave Mac a wide-eyed look of surprise that immediately crumbled into grief. Without warning, she collapsed in Mac’s startled arms, harsh sobs racking her frame as she desperately sought a refuge from a cruelty she’d never truly seen before.

Mac just let her cry, stroking her hair and silently renewing her pledge to have Jack permanently block her access to Howard Briggs. Her plans for castration and vivisection had just widened to include the use of a dull spoon, and his death would be neither quick nor easy.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Dot’s sobs tapered off into soft sniffles and hiccups, and Mac carefully reached for the glass of water sitting on the corner of the table. She gave Dot a gentle smile when she looked up and urged her to take a long, slow drink before handing her the handkerchief she always carried. An unnamed instinct warned her against talking, so she pointed at the mirror with her chin and shifted so she was behind Dot, carefully beginning to braid her hair, hoping that her silence and undemanding touch would help soothe the girl’s raw emotions.

It worked, and after just a few minutes, the story spilled out. Mac had already heard this, thankfully, so she was able to direct her attention to the emotions that were swamping Dot. Also thankfully, the girl’s feelings were normal: guilt that Phryne had taken her place, horror at how a man could so easily hurt a woman the way Briggs had, and a new fear that she herself would have endure something similar once she was wed, no matter how gentle Hugh was.

That last was unknown territory for Mac, so she decided to focus on the things she _could_ help, and, slowly and tenderly, began drawing out the poison fueling her guilt. Happily, Dorothy Williams was a stable, level-headed woman (one of the many, many reasons she and Phryne were so well-suited), and she had come to know her mistress well in the last two years. As such, once the crippling guilt had been talked through, she was able to see on her own that Phryne had only done what was in her nature, and that she would die before allowing Dot to blame herself for the actions of a sick, twisted individual who enjoyed hurting people just because he could.

The fact that Phryne would likely have burned Australia to ashes had she been unable to protect Dot was a detail Mac kept to herself.

Eventually, the girl came to accept — mostly — her innocence in what had happened today. Some part of her would always feel a tiny bit responsible, and Mac knew it. It was a feeling they would all bear, as unfair as it was, but like Phryne, Dot was already beginning to absorb and process things, and Mac was fairly sure she would be back to her usual self in no time . . . though more mature and with a new level of necessary caution.

The problem now was Dot’s newfound horror at being touched, especially by a man. And here, Mac was stumped. The experience wasn’t one she’d ever had, willing or not, so she was at an utter loss as to how to help, especially since Dot’s complete innocence with regards to her own body — never mind sex — had the unfortunate effect of amplifying these new fears. Phryne was the person she really needed to talk to, but even though she understood what had happened today, Dot still wasn’t ready to speak with her mistress. Understanding this, Mac made no effort to convince her otherwise.

Instead, she carefully raised the possibility of outside assistance, and found herself pathetically grateful when Dot suddenly remembered the sister working at the Imperial Club. Mac’s surprise at this was overshadowed only by a frankly pathetic degree of gratitude; she truly had no idea how to help poor Dot now, so having a solution that the young woman would accept was a Godsend. And though she might be lacking in delicacy, Mac wasn’t heartless, so she started Dot on getting dressed while she trotted downstairs. Once there, she turned into a 4-star general directing a campaign: she informed Mr Butler that it would be a good idea to prepare enough food to feed a battalion, as Jack would arrive later this evening (they shared a rueful, slightly amused smile at this; the man’s appetite had achieved a near-legendary status among the household, though it was one that Mr Butler reveled in indulging); then she telephoned the Imperial Club, took a second to say ‘thank God’ that Dot’s sister was there, and arranged to meet her at a café near her rooms in about an hour. Once that was done, she headed to the parlor, where she rather reluctantly woke Phryne so she could do one final visual exam, apprise her of the situation, and also get her up and moving.

Her tasks accomplished (and another shot of whisky tossed back; Tobias Butler was a _miracle worker_ ), she was heading back up the stairs when Dot met her halfway and they made for the kitchen in relatively-companionable silence; Dot still wasn’t able to speak to Phryne, but she rallied enough to give her a tremulous smile before Mac got her out of the house and bundled into the waiting cab (had she mentioned that Mr Butler was a Godsend?). Showing tact for probably the first time in his life, Bert said nothing; he merely squeezed Dot’s hand and gave Mac a questioning look to which she shook her head. The list of people who would happily kill Howard Briggs did not need any additions, and this pair could definitely be described as impetuous. Also imaginative. And murderous, when their protective instincts were roused. But if Mac couldn’t kill him, she sure as hell wasn’t ceding that privilege to anyone who wasn’t Phryne or Jack.

Dot didn’t speak as they headed to the small café where her sister was waiting, though Mac was heartened by the occasional squeeze to her fingers. She knew that Dot would recover from this, and those soft touches gave her hope that the trauma wasn’t too deep.

Once they arrived, Dot startled her by giving her a long hug and a soft ‘thank you’ before embarrassment flushed her cheeks and she pulled away quickly, hurrying across to the table where her sister was waiting.

Cec arched an eyebrow at her and Mac wordlessly shook her head.

“Just . . . take me home, please,” she rasped, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was. “No questions, no comments, no smart remarks, no nothing. Not today. And _not_ to Phryne or Inspector Robinson either,” she added fiercely, pinning Bert with a hard look. “This isn’t something that can be joked about, and the issue has — well, it’s being resolved.”

Bert looked mutinous but Cec took Mac’s entire demeanor in and nodded, elbowing his friend in the side when he started to object.

“We understand, Doctor. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

She snorted.

“Well, unless you can get me an all-expenses paid trip to a tropical island,” she said with more than a little sarcasm (which she felt was entirely justified), “then no. All I want right now are copious amounts of alcohol. And chocolate.”

“We can do both,” Bert assured her, his face sincere, and she softened at his genuine distress and desire to help. “It will be all right, you two,” she assured them again. But because she was Mac and they were Bert and Cec, that was all the ‘gentle’ any of them could take. “So, where can I find this wonderful alcohol you promised?” she asked, breaking the moment, and Bert chuckled. “Tiniest little hole in the wall you’ve ever seen,” he bragged (and it was; she almost developed claustrophobia from going inside). While she and Bert chose a truly magnificent selection of alcohol, Cec ducked out to acquire the chocolate she’d asked for.

They were wonderful enough sometimes to make her wonder if being with a man might be worth it.

Then Bert nearly got into a bingle because some ‘obnoxious toff’ flicked cigarette ashes on his beloved cab and she was reminded that no, it wasn’t. At least there wasn’t any blood this time.

And it was only once Mac was finally home, refusing to feel guilty for plowing through the _gorgeous_ chocolate Cec had found and doing her level best to drink herself into forgetting this hellish day without giving herself alcohol poisoning, that she allowed herself to break. They would survive this, she knew . . . all of them.

But she hated that they had to. It just wasn’t fair.

~~~

Phryne heaved a deep sigh as the door closed behind Mac and Dot; her friend had assured her while the young woman was getting dressed that Dot would be fine, though it would take time, and she was taking her to her sister Nell — Lola — at her own request, since she was apparently the only other woman Dot knew (and would talk to) who could understand what had happened today. She had also been able to impress on Phryne that Dot wasn’t blaming herself — wholly — for what had happened. Phryne had closed her eyes in sorrow at that, knowing all too well that the feeling would never go away, not completely. For Dot, it would make no difference that Phryne would have done the exact same thing for anyone in that bank today; it had been Dot who was targeted, and so she would always feel that she bore some of the responsibility.

And that, unfortunately, wasn’t something that anyone could fix. Still, with understanding came acceptance, and Phryne possessed both of these in spades. Once Dot was able to return home of her own free will, Phryne would treat her the same as always — as the bright, clever, curious young woman who was so eager to explore and expand the world that she had seen at her mistress’ side — and her life should, hopefully, resume as normal, albeit with a heightened awareness of danger and a new maturity. But Phryne refused to let this destroy Dot, just as she refused to let it ruin what she and Jack had built. And the smile — small and tremulous though it was — that the young woman gave her warmed her down to her toes. There was the Dot she knew and loved.

With another sigh, she started her slow trip upstairs, heading for her own long, hot soak and scrub. Mac had given her exactly what she needed with her full-body cuddling — Phryne had even rallied enough to flirt with her a little — but she was glad now to be alone. She desperately needed some time just for herself, to think and process (cry, maybe, or scream, or quite possibly break those hideously ugly ceramic gnome bookends she’d been saddled with from a thoroughly unimaginative lover) before Jack came to her. Ruefully, she remembered cursing his overprotective instincts when she’d arrived home to find her other best friend waiting in the parlor, bottle of whisky in hand and utterly lacking her usual expression of sardonic amusement. That had lasted all of three minutes, and then she could have kissed the man (for any number of reasons, really; he needed to hurry up and come _home_ ).

Her irritation had melted into sheer relief at Mac’s complete and total understanding that what she needed right then wasn’t words or touch, but just her unassuming, undemanding presence. And that was what she’d gotten, along with a small shot of whisky. For whatever reason, the simple act of accepting the tumbler had shattered the last of her walls and Phryne had lost it. For Dot’s sake, she’d kept her sobs silent, but she was completely unable to maintain her composure and had retreated to her refuge in the chair beside the fireplace, kicking her shoes off and curling up with her knees to her check and her face buried behind them.

She’d distantly heard Mac escorting Dot upstairs to take a long, hot bath — and the young woman’s soft acquiescence — and was deeply grateful that her companion was finally responding to someone. Dot hadn’t spoken a word since the bank, and though she had clutched tightly to Phryne’s hand in the aftermath of things, once they’d gotten to City East, she’d completely withdrawn — well, after she’d stared the commissioner into submission with nothing but the sheer force of her protective instincts to shield her mistress (Phryne smiled as her pride in Dot flared again. Her companion had been glorious, a righteous avenging angel, and that had given Phryne the strong hope that Dot _would_ recover, though her subsequent withdrawal had been all the more worrisome as a result.). She knew full well that Dot was blaming herself, and knew equally well that there would be no changing her mind; guilt was insidious like that, especially unwarranted guilt, so all Phryne could do was show her that she, Phryne, was fine and held no blame, no resentment, for Dot.

However, she also knew that watching Briggs molest her had damaged Dot’s innocence in all the wrong ways. She deeply desired to help the young woman become more comfortable with her body, not to mention men’s bodies in general, and also to become less — afraid? Wary? — yes, wary, of sex and sensual pleasures. She badly wanted to show Dot that sex wasn’t a shameful thing that was only done in dark alleys or bedrooms at night, that it could be a wonderful, amazing experience, as well as fun to talk about. But even more, she wanted to help Dot to not be ashamed of her desires and wants, especially with her and Hugh’s engagement, and in fact, she had been planning that very campaign.

Hugh!

Oh, this was . . . this was not good. Phryne personally and strongly believed that Hugh did not need to be told of today’s events. After all, nothing had happened to Dot — well, not physically — but Hugh wasn’t really equipped for the kind of emotional support she would need. Feeling outraged and angry on her behalf (and very out of depth himself) would invariably lead to him overcompensating with his tendencies toward overprotectiveness, and he would probably end up smothering her; worse, his ‘I’m the man and therefore _the_ protector’ proclivities would also undoubtedly kick in and Phryne could easily see him trying to convince (or possibly forbid; the boy could still occasionally be very dense) Dot to stop working with her ‘for her own safety.’

And that was the last thing Dorothy Williams needed.

Yes, she’d had a horrible shock that day and was understandably disturbed, but she was also so incredibly strong that after some time to work through everything, she would come back even more resilient, with a greater capacity to handle the unexpected hurdles that life threw at you. The problem was that right now, she was unbelievably vulnerable and all she wanted was someone to hold her and tell her it was alright, they’d take care of it and her. And with Hugh being her fiancé . . .

But she would say nothing. This was ultimately Dot’s decision, and it wasn’t Phryne’s place to interfere, even though every instinct she had was crying out for it.

Mac’s presence was suddenly a double blessing; she possessed that rare ability to provide comfort without platitudes, and didn’t shy away from saying what needed to be said, but she was able to do so without being cruel.

An unexpected gentle hand on her foot made her start violently and she looked up, eyes wide with fearful surprise. Mac withdrew immediately, taking a long drink of her own whisky as she pulled the matching chair close enough that Phryne could reach out and touch her if she wished and sank into it, then gave her an understanding look that said _‘when you’re ready, then.’_

That silent consideration caused the sobs clawing at her throat to break free and she crumbled, burying her face in Mac’s shoulder and crying her heart out. Mac said nothing, just held her until the storm passed, and handed her a fresh drink and a handkerchief when she finally sat up and sniffled. No questions were asked as Phryne wiped her face and sipped the whisky, letting the burn of the alcohol and the presence of the only other person she trusted completely soothe her.

Finally, after another drink and a few more stifled sobs, she talked.

Mac never spoke or moved during the recitation; she simply stayed, a solid rock of support, and let Phryne unburden her soul. And when the words ran out, and Phryne was so raw and aching that even the air of her parlor was too rough against her skin, Mac did nothing but offer a hand, fingers splayed in silent invitation. Phryne stared at it for far longer than she would have thought necessary before her need for a soothing touch overcame a new revulsion that she refused to give in to, even as she was brought to the understanding that Howard Briggs hadn’t raped her, no . . . but he had still caused damage Phryne had never anticipated.

And Jack, who knew her so well it should terrify her, had understood and made sure she had what she needed. Never in the entirety of her life had Phryne Fisher had someone love her so unselfishly. Or so completely.

She didn’t realize she was smiling until Mac gave her a soft smile in return and said, “Well, I’ll give you this: when you choose a man, you don’t do it by halves,” before raising her glass in a salute and tossing back the rest of her drink. As she poured herself another shot, her smile morphed to a sly grin as she asked Phryne to, “Tell me again how Jack actually managed to do better than killing him?”

Phryne couldn’t help her snort of amusement at this; Mac had something of a mean streak, especially when it came to the male of the species, and her sense of humor, paired with her intelligence, was so dark and dry that Phryne had to admit relief at times in Mac’s complete lack of interest in male sexuality. Otherwise, she’d genuinely be concerned about putting her inspector in the same room with her doctor; they would make a well-matched, albeit explosive, couple.

Still, the memory made her smile as she obliged her friend, because she appreciated poetic justice as much as Mac (and Jack) did, and to be honest, she would have done the exact same thing, only with her dagger. And a great deal more blood and screaming. Still, it had been one of the most satisfying and deserved punishments she’d ever seen, and her spirits lifted a little just remembering it.

As she finished the story, Mac swallowed the last of her whisky, and then fixed Phryne with a solemn expression. “He’s a good man,” she observed, even as her eyes filled with regret, backed by resolve. “And I’m sorry, Phryne, I am, but I need to examine you,” she said seriously, holding back her wince at Phryne’s instinctive flinch.

“There’s no need—” she began, only to be cut off, albeit gently.

“Yes, there is. You said he didn’t . . . get that far . . . but he still could have done some damage. And none of us will rest easy — you included — until we know for sure,” Mac said with the tender, but implacable, authority that came with being Phryne Fisher’s oldest friend.

She tried to demur, but Mac wouldn’t be deterred, and in truth, Phryne knew it was necessary. She just didn’t want to. But Jack would be here as soon as he was free, and the day’s events should not be part of the conversation they were going to have. He understood and accepted, as did she, what had happened and why, and neither of them could claim ‘reckless’ this time; it had been nothing more than damnable coincidence . . . or possibly divine providence. Above all, it had been pure necessity. But by the time this day was over, she and Jack were going to be lovers . . . and, oh, even she was surprised at how _badly_ she wanted him tonight. Although, looking back over their long, meandering journey, not just into love, but the even deeper bond of trust _,_ she realized that she truly shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Jack had earned her complete and total faith, and her belief, in every respect now, and because of that, and his immeasurable regard for her, she would never fear his touch. More, she no longer feared his love.

But he was going to be hesitant, not wanting to push her, and would probably also want to talk first (the irony of this had her snorting into her bath water so hard she actually cleared a small space of bubbles; Jack Robinson wanting to talk about ‘them’? She’d have to keep an eye out for flying pigs.). If that should happen, she wanted — no, _needed_ to be able to truthfully tell him that for her, things had been examined and hashed out, and that yes, she was fine (or rather, she would be, honesty compelled her to admit; they both doubtless had some non-fun sleepless nights ahead of them, but they would face them together, and come out stronger on the other side).

She needed Jack to understand and believe that yes, she wanted him tonight. In every possible way. But if that didn’t, couldn’t, happen, then she fully intended to wrap him around her like a blanket and stay safe, _cherished_ , in the reassuring strength of his heart, while he soothed himself with her presence, knowing that she was wholly in the moment with him. He was hers now, and she had freely given herself to him, and she — they — needed and deserved that comforting assurance.

She was already able to look back objectively and see that things hadn’t gone nearly as badly as they could have, and she had no regrets, either for herself or her actions. That Jack had been trapped into watching would haunt her for life, yes, but even that was a cruel blessing. She knew all too well the dangers of the vivid horrors he could imagine . . . and even more, she understood his protective instincts when it came to her. He would burn the world to keep her safe, as would she, so had he not been with her, his tortured imagination would have overcome him and it was unlikely he would have recovered. As strong as he was, she understood the paradox of his — their — feelings for each other: they were the other’s strength, yes, but they were also each other’s biggest weakness. Had they not been able to face this together, it could have destroyed them both.

And she was not going to let that happen. Never again.

So, no: she wasn’t angry at anyone or anything except Howard Briggs, and even that . . . well, it was done and he was in gaol, headed to the gallows (and if by some minor miracle he managed to escape that fate, Mac would help her hide the body . . . and quite possibly kill him first while she was at it; either way, the bank robber was no longer of relevance to anyone). He was history now, and she was determined to make it ancient as soon she could. Nothing could be changed and Phryne Fisher did not live in the past. Nor did she believe in regrets. This philosophy had served her well throughout her life, and it didn’t fail her now. But Jack . . . if he needed to talk about it, then she would be open and waiting, but she refused to give him anything more to worry about, at least with regards to Howard Briggs. The man wasn’t worth the time it took to say his name and she was determined that he wouldn’t even get that much from her.

From them.

History would, unfortunately, give him posterity he did not deserve, but she was damned if she would allow him to claim anything other than a footnote for _their_ story.

~~~

Jack met Mr Butler at the kitchen door; the older man was on his way out, it seemed, and only paused long enough to inform Jack that there was food in both the warmer and the icebox, Doctor MacMillan had already been and gone, escorting Dorothy to her sister’s, and Miss Fisher was waiting for him in the parlor, before moving past him to the waiting cab, with Phryne’s red-raggers clearly visible in the front seat.

Surprised, Jack blinked after him for a literal minute . . . and then the words registered and he realized that this meant he and Phryne were alone in her house. 

Well, thank God for that. Thinking back, he was fairly certain that had never happened in the entirety of his relationship with Phryne Fisher.

And Prudence Stanley was where she belonged: across town, in her own home, and with absolutely no reason to visit her niece today. If he hadn’t been so bloody _drained_ , Jack would have danced a jig. As it was, he reached for the tie he kept forgetting he wasn’t wearing, his fingers stuttering over the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and had the inane thought that he should have gone home first and gotten a replacement tie, if only so Miss Fisher could tease them both by straightening it and his lapels.

Then again . . . the last time they’d been together, him tieless and with his collar open, she had . . .

Well. This certainly had potential, didn’t it? And this time, he’d be prepared for it. What would she do, he suddenly wondered, if he opened the next button for her . . . while she watched? He was unable to suppress a wicked smile when he pictured her expression. Oh, yes. This most definitely had _potential._

So why was he still standing on the back stoop, grinning like a gormless fool?

His mirth faded as he stepped into the unusually quiet kitchen, locked the door behind him, and made his way to the ice box to grab a sandwich, only to do a double-take at the amount of food. Did — did Mr Butler know something he didn’t? Or was the man simply planning to be gone from the house for a few days?

He was struck by how pleasant (and arousing) he found both of those thoughts.

As always, his favorite sandwich was tasty and he snagged another one, chewing thoughtfully as his thoughts returned to Phryne, and he found himself trying to determine exactly how he was feeling now. Subdued anger was naturally present, which only stood to reason; he might not remember unleashing his dark, violent rage on Gibson and Jenkins, but it had clearly worked (a miracle, if he was honest). The anguish, the despair, even the self-hatred were — not gone, but muted. And they wouldn’t suddenly come flooding back to drown him; he’d been able to work things through in his own mind, and while he would always hate what had happened in that bank, his mind had been able to join forces with his heart and establish acceptance. And it was solid. He wouldn’t spiral back down if Phryne needed to talk about it, but he no longer needed to speak of it himself. And he suspected that she wouldn’t either.

After all, they’d already openly and clearly expressed themselves to each other. What more, really, could be said?

And if it did become necessary, they had the time now, so he was able to push the lingering remnants of his anger away in favor of much more pleasant things. The anticipation, the hope, the sheer _joy_ spiraling through him, things that he hadn’t felt in so very, very long, were filling his heart with such warmth and absolute contentment that he had to pause for a moment and just . . . savor . . . them. 

But she was calling him, and everything he was rose to answer her. So he opened the door and stepped into the parlor, his entire being going still as he met Phryne’s eyes. 

She bore no outward indications of what she had survived — and not just today — but he . . . he knew all too well and was both awed and humbled by her resilience: she stood tall, proud, and undaunted despite what she had lived through this day, and yet she still had the strength to smile at him. And mean it.

It was entirely possible that he would never love her more than he did in this moment and he sighed softly as he felt the last of his restlessness subside.

He was home.

A natural silence ensued as they found themselves matching their breaths and for a while they just looked at — _into_ — each other. Then she breathed “Jack” and — it didn’t break the moment, but moved it, and Jack eagerly followed in her wake, secure in the knowledge that she would always guide him home. 

“Phryne,” he murmured, not relinquishing her gaze as he moved a few steps toward her. And then he finally asked the question that had been burning him by degrees for 17 months, four days, and an indeterminate number of hours. 

“What do you need from me?” 

After a long moment of contemplation, she gave him a tender smile and replied, “Nothing, Jack.” 

His heart should have stopped at that, but instead, it was filled with a soft joy because he truly, _finally_ understood.

“Alright,” he said with a nod, drawing ever nearer as her soul summoned him the way the sirens had tempted Odysseus — only he had neither the desire nor the intention of resisting. Not for a single second more. His smile was in his voice as he huskily asked, “Well, then, Phryne Fisher . . . what do you _want_ of me?” 

Her smile was a bright, joyous beam that dimmed the sun in its wake and she offered her hand as she crossed the last few steps still remaining between them, answering his soul’s plaintive call, their fingers twining so thoroughly that they might as well be one entity. 

“I want _us_ , Jack,” she breathed, tangling the fingers of her free hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, while his other hand curved around the sweet swell of her hip. “I want to give myself to you and accept you into myself . . . I want us to triumph over this footnote of our story and start our new chapter with all the hope and expectations we deserve.” 

She probably ( ** _probably?!)_** had more to say, seducing him with literary imaginings, but Jack couldn’t bear being separated from her any longer, not after hearing his most longed-for wish come straight from her heart. With a soft breath, he brought their joined hands to his mouth for a gentle kiss across her knuckles before he took her lips with his in a tender question that she answered with an eager willingness that pulled all the air from his lungs even as she gave him hers. 

And then her lips parted and their tongues met, and they went up in flames that warmed him through every fiber of his being, even as the simmering heat of their passion blazed up. 

“Jack!” she gasped, pulling away and offering her throat, her fingers tightening in his hair as he laved hot, moist kisses down the sweet line of her neck to her shoulder, his hand tightening on her hip as he reveled in the sublime feel of _finally_ having her in his arms. 

Then she pushed him back, just a little, and he fought to keep from keening with the loss of her touch before she curved her hand back around his neck, instantly soothing the ache (and tickling him a little as her fingers played with those short, sensitive hairs). He was a little surprised at his lack of fear of touching her, but it was immediately washed away by the remembrance of how completely she trusted him, and of how deep his faith in her was. If she didn’t want his touch, she would tell him.

The love that flooded him at the realization that she _was_ seeking his caresses actually caused his heart to skip a beat.

Her eyes met his, bright with hunger and happiness, but also gleaming with something . . . else, something he couldn’t quite identify, and he pulled her to him so their foreheads rested against together as they shared each other’s breath, smiling a little when she took his hand as well. 

“Jack . . . ” she whispered, her breath sweet across his lips. “I . . . ” 

She trailed off and he pulled her even closer, squeezing her fingers reassuringly and whispering back, “Whatever you need, Phryne, whatever you want of me is yours. Always.” 

He felt her swallow, hard, and squeezed her hand again, but said nothing. She would tell him when she was ready. 

“I want — we were together today, in spirit,” she finally said, keeping her eyes steady on his. But he could see the effort it took and her words woke a feeling of . . . he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t turn away from her. Never again. Whatever she asked or desired of him in this moment, he would give her.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly, twining their fingers again and letting the intimate touch soothe them both.

“And now . . . now I want . . . ” 

She trailed off again, but he thought he understood and was . . . he still didn't know. Aroused. Unsure. Possibly a little terrified (they had wanted each other for _so long_ ). But they were equals here, too, and so he said it for her, because he was damned if he was going to make her ask. If this what she wanted of him, then she would have it. And he refused to deny that it was his desire as well.

“Now you want to be together in body,” he finished for her, his voice husky with love and pride and lust and — oh, so many things. His lips curved in the half-smile he knew she adored and he dropped his head, nuzzling her cheek and drawing her scent into his lungs as he fought back tears — of joy, of love, even of lingering sorrow. They had made it through.

“Yes,” she whispered, the longing in her eyes backlit with gratitude. “Yes. I refuse to let him have any more of me — of us — than he's already gotten, but more than that, Jack, I want to end this day with hope. Hope, and love, and us taking the first step on this new path. Together.” 

“Phryne,” he breathed, tilting his head to kiss her again. That they were so in tune with each other, after _everything_ they had been through on their journey to reach this moment, was incredible . . . and literally breathtaking. If he weren’t getting his air from her while he worshiped her mouth with his, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be breathing at all. His heart was trying desperately to claw its way free of his chest so it could take its place in hers, and he didn’t even think to stop it. She had laid claim to it, after all, and he had willingly ceded it to her.

When he felt her tugging him forward, he followed blindly, still kissing her with the passion of a man who is finally with the woman he can trust to taste it, return it, and, above all, cherish it. But when she suddenly sank to the carpet, pulling him with her, it broke his haze of pleasure . . . although the only thing he managed to say was, “Wh—?” 

She dimpled up at him, her hands steady, one curled around his shoulder and the other resting possessively over his heart, and said, “For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge—”

—and understanding hit him like a freight train as he realized that she meant it literally. For a split second, he wanted to object, to pull away. He didn’t want their first time making love to be on the floor of her parlor, trying to chase away the shadows of a memory made in the space between a rock and a hard place. But when her eyes locked onto his and he saw again the trust she held in him, and the faith, it brought him to his knees, and his gaze never left hers even as his voice shook just a little when he took up the refrain. “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.”

Phryne’s voice and hands joined with his and they finished their vow, their pledge to each other, together. “Thus and more may the Lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you."

She was right: they had already claimed each other today, when they had given themselves and their promises. It was time to complete their bond and embrace their future.

So he tenderly bared her to his adoring, revering eyes while she rejoiced in unveiling him, and they shared one final loving kiss before, eyes locked together, she welcomed him inside her body as he gave her his. And they moved as one accord and together they brought each other to the brink of ecstasy. Together, they crested that edge.

And together, they came home.

~~~

_What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined to strengthen each other, to be at one with each other, in silent, unspeakable memories? — George Eliot_

~~~

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who want spoilers and/or more information about the heart of this fic, here goes: I wanted to read something that featured competent Jack, BAMF! Jack, and a situation where both of those things could happen without diminishing Phryne. As I didn't find what I was looking for (apologies if it's out there and I just missed it), my brain Would Not Shut Up until I wrote it. 
> 
> The underlying theme of this fic is trust, and the circumstances that bring the deepest, most intimate parts of it to the surface. There is a scene with dubious consent; it isn't graphic, but it is integral to the plot, so if that's something that might be an issue for you, it takes place in Chapter 2. But the bulk of this story is Jack and Phryne, and their relationships with each other. 
> 
> As always, I love and welcome comments and concrit . . . but flames and personal attacks will not be tolerated. You don't like the direction I took for the plot? Awesome. Let me know. You hate whatever about the story? Great; let me know. You think I'm the most horrible person God ever created for writing this? Fantastic; keep it to yourself. You believe I should change my viewpoint or opinions to match yours? Fabulous. Keep it to yourself.
> 
> I understand this is a sensitive issue, and am well-aware it might hit some nerves, and that's fine. But we are all adults here, and I do not think it's unreasonable to act like it. 
> 
> So, having said all that: I hope you enjoy the story!


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